The Dragon and the Wolf
by siraneek
Summary: What if the real enemy was never defeated? A continuation where the show left off with elements of the books. Winter isn't going away - but with the white walkers defeated Westeros should have faded back into the spring. Ravens are crowing and enemies lurk in the shadows. Is the long night truly over?
1. A Raven's Gaze

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire books or content, nor their continuation in Game of Thrones. This is just my stab at picking up the leftover pieces and making my own sense of them with the help of book content.

**Warning:** This is **Rated M** for a reason. I haven't quite figured everything out, but Martin is ever the realist and I plan on continuing that trend in my version of the story. Expect everything you would from any novel like his.

This is my first time writing here so I'm pretty nervous and could do with feedback. Please let me know what you think and leave a comment!

I will be updating **weekly**, probably on the weekends. Enjoy : )

* * *

**The Dragon and the Wolf**

A _Game of Thrones_ Fanfiction

* * *

**Drogon**

**For leagues the black winged beast** flew across the rippling waters of the Narrow Sea. There were many a shriveling, cursing fishermen that were trying their luck at the coming schools of fish in the fading winter, shaken at the sight of such a creature in the sky. Jumping from their boats or quivering in their boots, they would make fast prayers to the Seven and quiet their whimpering breaths.

This creature ignored their gaze, lingering instead on the precious corpse he held in his tiring claw. Memories swarmed in his head - of screams from frightened prey, of the warmth in her gaze, of fire and blood. And that wretched metal that she always kept in her thoughts, poisoning her mind, stretching thickly over her dreams.

The sun was slowly becoming stronger, its gaze warming the aching muscles in his webbed skin. Days were easier than the nights when the moon was all that kept company. In these times, it was more clear how alone he was - without her. Without the bond that merged their souls together.

One such night a crow echoed in the silence, and then another. A flock of ravens watched in the moonlight glow, their focus too human to be mistaken. He could feel a mental tug from within and roared violently in rage at such an act. No one else was allowed to touch his mind the way she did. Bellowing dangerously, he spewed fire at the birds and watched gingerly as they fell.

In the coming dawn the ebony dragon had made it to the weathered land and circled away from the cities, close to the cliffs that nestled near the sea. Here he rested, placing her gently on the long grass that reminded him of the first time he caught sight of his mother.

Laying his head nears her, Drogon settled protectively before closing his eyes. In his dreams he watched bald men with darkened lips snatching him away, screams for his mother unheard in the walls of the sorcerer. Then he felt her grip on his scales, urging him forward, her fierceness a compliment to his own. _Dracarys_.

_Yes, little one_, he would say, his heart yearning for her shimmering violet eyes. _Always_.

A noise woke him suddenly, feet scrambling on crumpled stone. Shaking the dreams away, he stared at a man that was now running down the jagged path, screaming. He would kill for such a disturbance, but looking down at her flowing white hair and soft face, still resting as if asleep, he dare not leave her unprotected. Roaring warningly, the black beast stretched his limbs and readied for the air. Softly, he pushed her into his claw and then beat his powerful wings into the sky.

Above the cities the creature felt waves of hunger stabbing into his inner recesses of his belly, but he knew he could not stop. No, the dragon would not eat while his mother breathed no longer. There was an instinct that drove him back to this place - back to where it all had begun. Before the time of his mother, he was conceived in another land that was the home of his ancestors. There his roots urged him to go. There he would take her.

Below, where the common people watched as they tilled fields and traveled with their herds and their goods to the markets, many pointed at the dangerous shadow that cut across the sky. They had heard the legends, but did not know why he was returning. Was the Dragon Queen finished with her conquest? Had she come back to check on the former slave cities? At a closer glimpse, the guards stationed in watchtowers caught a white blur within a closed claw. One such man sprinted to the messengers and sent a quickly written scroll, his heart pounding heavily.

Drogon ignored them all. He instead lingered on the memory of that wolven man whom she loved so much - the anger of his actions making the beast growl deeply. Had it not been for the shared blood in his veins and her last wish made in haste, the beast would have torched that man with every drop of energy he could muster. Redirecting his anger, the dragon made sure that tainted metal would pay for costing his little one so much.

The largest hold of them all shone in the night - considerable fires kept it aglow, eyes cast upwards at the sound of his screech. The beast did not notice their presence, or did not care enough to focus on their red cloaks from above. No, the dragon was too close to the end to allow for any further distraction.

The city came and went, and he was alone once again. His body protested at the strain in not stopping but he could taste the familiar ash in the air. The dawn should have risen upon the world but clouds of powdered smoke barely allowed any light to cut through. A familiar hanging rock came into view and Drogon pushed his enormous wings faster at the sight.

Landing clumsily, the beast fell onto his side rather than risk crushing his little one. Stopping a moment to breathe heavily, the dragon turned and took a closer look at his mother. She has not changed. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm the creature and he felt his vision blur as he dragged himself under the massive arc of stone, moss growing on its sides and stretching over the ground. Placing her softly on a bed of mulch, he felt satisfied with her care.

Tumbling to the stone, Drogon gave one final mourning call to the world before sinking into a dreamless sleep.

In the shadows a pair of eyes blinked, watching. A hand gripped her red cloak as she gazed at the one who was promised.

* * *

**Arya**

* * *

**Feeling the tide push and pull** the ship, a girl settled deeper into her swaying cot, her fingers gripping a familiar blade absentmindedly. _What is west of Westeros_? What an easy lie that came to her lips. Looking at her queenslayer of a brother, no, _cousin_ she reminded herself, there was an unmistakable depth of pain in his darkened eyes. However it ended - he would be haunted for the rest of his night's watch life. Of course, there was no night's watch either. Wherever he was, Jon was not that. Then _Lady Stark_ settled quite comfortably as Queen in the North, but at least Arya could have expected that. What with her beautiful red hair and shining blue eyes, that gait of a walk down the halls of Winterfell, it had come to no surprise her sister would succumb to a thirst for power. Either way, they had believed her without a doubt.

It was true, Arya wondered what laid in that direction. She had hoped to let her questions settle and leave her Stark name behind, but she wasn't ready. It was easier to think of an alternative. When Jaqen H'ghar first looked upon a girl when they were heading to the Wall it was the face behind his mask that she was curious to discover. Where was the assassin now? What was he doing when he was caught? Now that the Hound was gone, she felt a stab in her chest that she pretended to ignore. Was there anyone left that she knew? Well, besides Hot Pie, and -

No, she wouldn't think of that black haired man. The very hint of his face in her thoughts made her legs tighten, and she rolled her eyes before looking out the window. It seemed the dawn was edging into sky and gave her reason to rise from the sleep she didn't have. Strapping her worn boots tight, Arya dressed and pulled her hair into a half braid - just like father. Chuckling, she glanced at the faded mirror and could imagine him looking back. "Wouldn't you be proud?" she asked, taking a step closer. "Bran is King of the six realms, while Sansa is Queen of the North. And Jon still lives. But I did warn you, the future you thought for me, that isn't me. I hope - I pray that this would've made you proud too."

Feeling tears in her eyes, Arya wiped them away and settled into a blank face. Running up the stairs she found Dodrick eyeing the cloudless sky, his entire body still. She remembered his drunken stupor in front of the tavern by the docks, waving around a mouse bitten captain's hat. "Wha'a fine littl' lass, would'a thought a wolve wouldn'a strayed from da den," he hiccupped, noticing the stark sigil on her leather breastplate. Stumbling to a wall, the gray haired man leaned on it for support. His clothes smelled like rat's piss and his breath was even worse.

Now cleaned up, Dodrick looked more like the weathered captain he was. "Looks like a storm a headin'," he grinned wickedly, a gnarled hand lingering in the air. Arya stared at the captain, her eyebrow raised. "It is a clear sky," she countered, not entirely convinced. A part of her would always question what others spoke as truths, even if they believed them to be true. The Dragon Queen's face flashed in her mind, and Jon's faithful words about her. That kind hearted man thought his truths were real, and look at how that ended.

"Aye, but its da smell me nose is listenin' ta," Dodrick winked, tapping his nose as if it would explain everything. Arya sniffed in the air, and all she could smell was the salty ocean and an old man's sweat. Turning to the deck, Dodrick snapped orders for the crew and they hurried to change the sails. The girl settled herself on a stair and watched with keen interest. She began to mentally take notes of what was needed to command a ship. No one knew what the future held for her, and it was _no one_ she was seeking answers from.

Picking her fingernails for the dirt that was crammed underneath, Arya's mind went back to her family. Would she return for them when she was finished with the Faceless Man? No, Arya felt her goodbye was the only sincere part of their conversation. She couldn't bear to see Jon in his current state and wished him well in the North, where he belonged. _I don't want it_. Those words always seemed to linger in his mouth. Inwardly, the girl believed Jon would have been a good King, better, even, than the third eyed raven that lived in her brother's body. Something about this new Bran had a way of getting under her skin, unsettling her. Of course, she never let anyone know of these feelings. Sansa had clearly felt the same way about him, or more, considering how her face pales in his presence.

As if in response to her thoughts, a raven landed on one of the ropes high above, looking down at her. It tilted its head and glanced in the direction of Braavos before leaping into the sky and out of sight. Arya shivered, knowing what the bird meant. Why was Bran watching her from here? Whatever she was doing now, it had nothing to do with Westeros anymore.

"Stop stalking me!" she bellowed, and swore she could hear a laugh in the caws that followed. The sailors peered at her as if she had sprouted white hair and then quickly shuffled away. Good. They knew to mind their business.

Later on, when it was dark and a storm raged heavily outside, Arya sunk deeper into her cot and gripped her dagger. "It will pass, don't be a coward," she whispered to herself, and then screamed when the boat lunged forward and she tumbled to the creaking floor. Settling on the ground, she wrapped her arms tightly around her knees and looked up at the flickering ceiling. Killing men was much easier than fighting against nature. What was stopping the ocean from swallowing her whole?

Y_ou killed the Night King, you aren't going to die from a storm_. Breathing heavily, she thought of her list for comfort, and then felt a familiar disappointment when there were no names left. Or, at least, there weren't any yet.


	2. A Dragon's Call

**The Lone Wolf**

* * *

**Icy winds nipped **exposed skin and Jon slid the fur hood a little more securely over his head. "-And then I gut'ed that monster, right in da balls!" Tormund bellowed, shoving a hand in the pants of the unfortunate wildling that was closest to him. The man yelled out a string of curses and waved about a flimsy spear, threatening to split the ginger in two. It was all for sport. These people couldn't afford more losses and needed every hand to build their huts. Jon felt an unfamiliar tug on his mouth to smile, but then he swallowed the feeling and gazed at the far horizons. _You are my Queen_. _Now, and always._

Slapping his back quite daringly, Tormund sat next to his raven haired friend and grinned. "Think I ended 'is chances at makin' babies." Jon glanced at the ginger before looking away again. "Aye, ye probably did," he agreed, no hint of warmth in his voice. Eyeing his friend with a scrunched brow, he followed Jon's gaze to the distance. "Won' ya ever come back?"

"Will she?" Jon breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No," Tormund said, slouching back. "No," Jon agreed.

Every bit of her lingered, even now. He loved her. The pain in his chest was unbearable at how much his heart called out for her. He still knew how it felt to sink inside her, again and again, their lips merging with short breaths. When all three of her winged children scouted the skies, he could remember her face as she glowed at the sight of them. She was going to be a _good_ queen, he was so sure of it. That was before her children started to fall from the sky and her loved ones died before her eyes. When Dany asked him if she was _just _his queen, how did he respond? How did he comfort her?

_You didn't_ a voice rang in his head. _You let her choose fear_.

"We need 'elp wi wood," Tormund said, cutting through his thoughts. Shaking his wild hair, Jon lifted himself up and dusted snow from his furs. "Aye," he nodded, walking away without a word.

Later in the night one of the scouts came back bearing ill news, his eyes wide. "We wen' an' checked the view, but winter is still holdin' tight," he gasped, bent over and breathing deeply. "Is been long enuff. Spring shoulda been coming," Tormund scratched his head. After the defeat of the Night King the weather would have started to grow warmer by now. Thinking about it, Jon realized the temperature might have dropped instead. Where they wrong about that assumption? Would winter continue even after the white walkers were defeated? Bran assured them it would not.

"Maybe it's delayed?" Jon asked, but he doubted his words. "We'll check in the morn. Tormund, you'll come with me."

"Aye, I gots to be there when yer arse falls down a mountain," Tormund grinned and ducked into his tent. Jon nodded to the group of listeners and made his way to his own bed.

In his dreams he heard a screech echo in the darkness. Reaching out, Jon felt the jagged stone of a structure that slowly revealed itself, sunlight pouring in from towering windows. Recognizing the statue, he stared at the creature that towered within and throughout the halls of Dragonstone. _No_, he begged, _not here_. _Anywhere but here_. The statue began to quake and quiver, and then the dragon's red eye peered back at him.

_Blood of my blood _it whispered, and then opened wide its flesh mouth before swallowing him whole.

The following sunrise the pair headed out with a couple of rangers through the frost bitten trees. Jon tried to shake off the dream in that too familiar place, but it gripped him tightly, lingering in the recess of his mind. "Coulda used a dragon righ about no-" one of the wildlings began, but Tormund silenced her with a fierce look. "Coulda 'ave a ranger that doesna look like me mother's arse, but ere we are," he growled back, shoving the woman in a mound of snow.

Jon smiled despite himself. It was brief, but it was there.

Climbing to the top of the cliff, the group looked out at the snowy mountains that spanned over the land. Dark, menacing clouds brewed overhead, a storm on its way. "Doesna make sense," Tormund grumbled, sticking his axe in a nearby tree. Peering closer to the edge, Jon squinted his eyes at one of the farther mountains. It looked as if the snow was shifting around the rock, as if an avalanche were falling. But what kind of avalanche cut across a mountain instead of down below?

"See that?" Jon asked, yanking the ginger and pointing at the sight. Tormund took a good look and then stared at his friend. "Aye. It's a mountain. Don' know if ye heard of it. Pointy. Made of stone." he said, his tone very serious. Jon groaned and beckoned again at the shifting snow. "Look closer! What's that movement?"

Laughing, the ginger eyed the distance a little more carefully. When Tormund caught sight of what Jon saw, his face paled. "Bloody ice spiders," he growled before suckling a big spit to the ground. "I 'avent seen 'em since the dead walked."

"They're wights?" Jon exclaimed, looking back at the shifting movement. Tormund shrugged. "S'pose not. Dead ones used to use 'em like horses. S'prised they weren' seen at Winter Hell."

Jon eyed his friend. "Winterfell," he corrected, and could hear his friend mutter _same 'ing_, _aint it_? "Looks like they're not heading in this direction. Should we hunt 'em?" he asked, thinking of how large the creatures must be for him to see them this far away.

The ginger waved his hand in the air and started walking back towards camp. "Reckon not, they're bloody 'ard to kill." Old Nan used to tell stories about the spiders when any of the Stark children asked about what laid beyond the wall. Why didn't the dead bring the spiders with them when they fought us at Winterfell? Did they think we were so outnumbered they had no need of the creatures? No. Something told Jon that the Night King would have kept his monsters close even if he thought he could win without them. Then what was the reason behind leaving them here?

A single crow voiced in the trees, and then Jon Snow slipped back into the shadows.

* * *

**Khaleesi**

* * *

**The glare of the sun** felt wonderful on her skin, her arms moving slowly in the warm air. There was the constant sound of hooves trampling in the eternal fields and the screeches of two winged children from above. She frowned slightly at their call, and then pushed away her thoughts. As she twirled and danced, her _sun and stars_ watched with heavy eyes, his back leaning against soft furs and hides. The dark haired baby in his lap laughed at his mother, reaching for her yearningly. Again, she spun around, swirling patterns painted across her limbs, making her look like a moving body of art.

"Moon of my life, come here," he begged, his voice husk. Drogo placed Rhaego gently in Irri's outstretched hands, his intention clear in the gaze of his khaleesi. Dany stopped and swayed in her place, batting lashes at her love with a heart that was full and a growing heat below her belly. Giving a tender smile, she raced across the long grass and leapt into his outstretched arms. The bells woven into his braids chimed at the impact and she kissed each of them longingly. "My sun and stars," she whispered, her legs tightening around his hips.

Swiftly, his mouth claimed hers and he brought them to his feet, holding her firmly above. Each step was a chorus of the bells and it made her kiss him more fervently, wanting to sink forever in this moment. Then Drogo lowered her to the grass, gently, patiently, before entering her in one quick movement. She growled against him, giving in to the demands of his body in hers. When they were done, her insides ached as she rested against him. Again, the sound of familiar screeches filled the air and Dany hid her face beneath his hair. "Why can't they come here, my sun and stars?"

Gazing at the emerald and pale yellow beasts, Drogo answered her again, as he always did. "They are not horses, moon of my life. They do not belong in the Night Lands," he whispered in her ear. _The dragons are my children. They're the only children I'll ever have. _

_Drogon!_

Shaking her head, Dany slipped out from Drogo's arms and stared desperately into the sky. There they were - Viserion and Rhaegal flew in circles where the clouds floated, unable to cross into this realm. She had made it a point to ignore what had happened before the Night Lands because it was too painful to remember. But there they were. Her beautiful children - reminding her of what was. They spoke of days long ago, when Daenerys Targaryen came with her three dragons to break the wheel. They spoke of lonely nights and mourning times, when a raven haired man - when he -

"Moon of my life, come back to me," Drogo breathed behind her. He then called Irri back with their child. She turned and smiled sadly, glancing at the baby, _her_ baby, that was beginning to cry. "Oh, no Rhaego," she whispered, making her way to her child and hugging him tightly. "You are safe, little one."

As they walked back to the tents, Dany gave one last fleeting thought of Drogon, grateful he was not flying here too.

Irri brushed through Dany's locks quite patiently, tying her hair back into several braids. "Your hair - it grow," she said approvingly, twisting it into one last knot. "I tie hair like Khaleesi, beautiful."

Grasping Irri's hand, Dany turned and faced her. The khals and bloodriders would race tonight, as they always did. "Let me do your hair," she said in Dothraki, making it clear that Irri could speak in her tongue. Grinning, the woman shook her head and started to rise to her feet. Grabbing her arm, Dany tugged gently. "Please. I could do with the practice. Nothing would make me happier," she smiled, and Irri gazed at her warmly. Sinking back to the ground, she turned to let Dany reach her long, brown hair. "Only if it make Khaleesi happy."

Glancing at Rhaego who was now peacefully asleep, she thought of how children do not grow in the Night Lands. "If only I could see my little Rhaego as a man," she whispered, weaving Irri's hair. "Baby do not grow in Night Lands. It is known," Irri stated, as if it were the simplest truth. A screech echoed outside.

"Why do you not join Jhiqui in their ride?" Dany asked, finishing the braids. Sighing, Irri got up from her perch and stretched. "Women do not ride night, Khaleesi," she explained, settling herself next to Rhaego and caressing his cheek.

Gazing at the two, Dany leaned over to her side. "The Stallion Who Mounts the World," she breathed, and then turned to face the ceiling of the tent. "If he had lived, he would have shaped the world with me."

There was a louder screech this time, and a tingling sensation spread across her skin and in her toes. Dany jolted up and ran out of the entrance, recognizing that call even in the clutches of death itself. It cannot be -

_My fierce child! They cannot kill you too!_ Glaring at the sky Dany could see her two children still flying above, looking down intently. Irri had just scrambled out of the tent and was gripping one of Dany's arms. "Khaleesi!"

Yanking herself away, she stared hard into the night. Another call echoed in the fields, and the sound of the Dothraki horde arriving with the dawn vibrated all around. "Drogon!" she yelled, scanning the fading stars. The closest horse held Drogo and he raced towards her with a crazed expression. "Moon of my life!" he cried, as a shadow behind him grew.

"My sun and stars!" she replied, reaching for him. Another ear splitting roar pierced the air and Dany had no doubt it was her fierce child, her once little one. The feeling of dread sunk into her bones and she stretched out her arm for Drogo, needing his support. A voice whispered in her ear where there was no lips pressed against her. _When the sun rises in the west -_

"No, _no!_" she screamed, covering her ears as if they could block out the sound. The shadow poured over the field and past the Dothraki, its shape that of a familiar dragon. _\- and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again -_

Slowly, she watched in horror as the fields began to disappear, the riders merging with the ground one after another. Drogo stared at her, and then he stared past her. Swiftly, he fell off his great horse and disappeared too. "My sun and stars! My sun and stars!" _\- and you bear a living child. Then he will return and not before_.

The wings of the shadow wrapped around her body and wrenched her away with the night.

* * *

**Mentionable Notes:**

I didn't realize how much research is required to write fanfiction until I started writing fanfiction. Honestly, I think I spend more time searching my facts and rereading the books than I do writing. Props to everyone who does write this stuff - it's hard!

The most I've read or heard about Dany coming back is the moment she is risen, that ever glorifying moment of DUN DUN *enters Daenerys Stormborn* *crowd cheers* SHE HAS RISEN!

Meanwhile I thought back to the House of the Undying and how she got to see her cute little baby and hubby for the first time, together, and how hard it must've been to leave them. Dany has her family back. No more back stabbing, no more fear, just love. Now imagine someone trying to take that from her. Not as happy an alternative as you'd think!


	3. A Stranger's Mercy

****Queen of the North****

* * *

**Walking through the halls of Winterfell **the northmen and women bowed as she swept by, some with less kindness in their eyes than others. There were whispers in these passages and she made sure to heed what their gilded words said. Taking deliberate care in collecting the best of the power figures she had found herself near time and time again, this wolf had little birds of her own.

Reaching the bend to the throne room, Robett Glover remained close to the door, his beady eyes watching her approach. The lords of the North were careful to stay near whilst the former Houses that had fallen were vacant and without heirs. Mormont, Karstark, and yes, she shivered, even Bolton. There were too many to list in that moment and she pushed them away - for now. Eventually the Queen would have to think of what to do with the land without tearing the North apart.

"Queen Stark," Robett bowed, his forehead nearly touching the ground. "Lord Glover," she acknowledged and waited a moment for her maid to adjust her crown and fur cape that billowed around. "I hope you are doing well."

"Aye, I came to talk about House Hornwood. It is -"

"You have made good timing, Lord Glover. The North waits in the throne room. Shall we? I will need you by my side," she interrupted, a faint smile on her lips. The man was insistent and proud, but he was one of the few that stayed behind to support her claim when Jon headed for King's Landing. For that, she would make sure he was awarded. "O-of course, my Queen," he bowed again, and followed as she walked through the opening doors.

Many faces watched as Sansa stepped down the aisle and gracefully sat herself on the newly crafted throne. Among them she could see Lord Wyman of House Manderly and Lord Cley of House Cerwyn, their expressions bordering malice. They were quick to fight for Jon to remain King of the North, or at the very least support the last living male heir - Bran Stark. It did not matter that Sansa knew deep inside her brother was no longer. These old houses would always choose a man over her. Making sure to maintain a blank expression, she turned to face the young boy that stood awkwardly in front of her.

"Your Grace, this is Larence Snow, the bastard of Lord Hornwood," said the Lady of Barrowton who sat ever so close. House Dustin was another loyal servant, eager to prove their worth to their new Queen. "Lord Glover, you have been keeping this boy safe in Deepwood Motte, have you not?" Sansa asked, turning to her friend.

"That I have. He's a son in me eyes. A good, strong lad," Robett nodded, triumph showing in his words. The boy blushed a bright red upon hearing this. Sansa knew what Robett wanted - if the boy became a Hornwood then the Glover House would always have a strong hold in that land. Had it been anyone else who held that pawn Sansa would have made sure he wasn't theirs for long. Making a mental note to keep an eye on the situation she settled comfortably in her decision.

"Lady Berena was the last heir to House Hornwood. Do you bend the knee? Will you recognize your Queen?" the Lady of Barrowton demanded. It was a bit forceful, but Sansa knew the lords would not forget the power of a Stark in this moment.

"Y-yes, of course Your Grace!" Larence stammered, quickly unsheathing his blade and presenting it to her. "Larence Snow, I - Sansa of House Stark and Queen of the North, legitimize you as Larence Hornwood, the rightful Lord of your honorable House." The crowd swarmed with approval and filled the air with heavy clapping. Blushing again, the boy thanked his Queen profoundly and rushed to Lord Glover's side, his ears red too. Looking past the group, Sansa recognized the face that hid between the others.

"Lady Meera of House Reed! What a surprise to see you hear," Sansa remarked, making many heads turn. Suddenly feeling surrounded, the girl jolted from her seat. "Your Grace. I was sent by my father after receiving a raven requesting my presence in Winterfell."

Remembering her letter, Sansa settled in her throne again. "Ah, yes. It had been some time since I sent that raven to Lord Reed." She had been thinking of the oddness of her brother and wanted to speak to someone who knew what truly happened. After the heirs of House Reed left with Bran across the Wall it seemed as if he never truly came back. Although her brother had accepted her right as Queen of the North, Sansa still felt she needed to be careful around him. What better way than to understand his transformation? Beckoning the girl forward, Sansa stood and walked back down the aisle to the doors.

Shuffling anxiously, Meera stood for a moment before running in a very unladylike way to Sansa's side. They left the main hall, the courtyard, and then the gates in silence. A few of her guards kept a watchful eye, but once reaching the Godswood Sansa ushered them away. Reaching the Weirwood, she gazed at its red leaves longingly before turning back to the girl.

Meera Reed held beautiful dark brown eyes and a childish sway that reminded Sansa of her younger brothers when they once chased each other through the halls. A raven landed on the branch of the weirwood, and then another, until the white tree was full of feathered bodies.

"It seems my brother is interested in you too," Sansa laughed, her caution rising in the presence of Bran. Those words seemed to make the girl wary and she took a step back from her Queen. "I doubt that," she answered, her voice barely audible from her lips.

"How fares House Reed?" the Queen asked, trying to keep the conversation going. Now that the King was present, it would be a little trickier to get the truth out of the girl. Why was he here? What did Bran not want her hearing?

"My father is well. His thoughts of a proper Lady aren't all that agreeable, though," Meera said with a wrinkle of her small nose. The ravens tilted their heads in unison, as if grinning. "No, I am sure they are not," Sansa smiled.

The two stood across from each other, their eyes locked. The air was cold and unforgiving, and their breath came out in powdered vapor. "I wanted to personally thank you again for delivering our brother to us in his time of need. We will forever be indebted to you," Sansa said, reaching forward and placing one hand on Meera's arm. "Yes, I suppose so," she replied.

Not knowing how to respond to those words, Sansa began to walk back to the castle. "Please allow yourself to stay comfortably in Winterfell as my guest. I will look forward to speaking with you more," she said, turning her head in the girl's direction before slipping through the trees.

Now alone, Meera looked up at the eyes that watched her. The raven on the lowest branch gave a loud caw before they scattered into the air, their feathers blowing in the wind.

* * *

**No One**

* * *

**Naked and in her own body **a girl dipped into the clear water of the spring, her hair waving behind like garden snakes. Dark, rich skin. Eyes the color of tree sap in a forest scattered with broken sunlight. There was a man that heard the shuffle of feet and the break of water, and he peered behind the shadows to look.

The poor merchant had never seen a woman so beautiful, her swelling breasts rising along with the rest of her from the pool. Praying to the gods, he imagined her to be a nymph or a fairy, and feared her running away if she caught sight of him.

She smiled and turned in his direction, already knowing he was there before he knew himself. Brushing through locks of deep brown, she walked slowly, carefully, swaying her hips as she came closer. "Please," she said, her eyes glistening, "I need your company."

Gulping, the man started to shake and clumsily rose to his feet, his heart soaring. The way she moved - he could see the hair that grew between her legs and craved for the feeling of him inside her. His wife at home was always screaming in his ear about how much she hated him, and brought men in the day when she thought he was away. It had been so long. The gods have blessed him!

Eagerly running up to the edge of the pool, he bowed, his eyes never leaving hers. "I need you," she said with a wink, clasping her chest and tenderly tracing down to her abdomen. "I-o'course," he stammered, reaching for her.

Grasping his arms, she pulled him closer, letting his hands touch her hips, dragging them to rest over each raised nipple. "Thank you," she whispered, caressing his neck. In one moment his eyes were hopeful and ready, heated in the way men become, and then in another he gazed at nothing at all. A quick flash and the sound of bones snapping, and he fell to the ground.

"The Many Faced God will not be happy a girl stole a life," said a voice from the shadow of the trees. "No," she agreed, sinking back into the pool. "But he saw my face. It could not be."

If only she could make use of the girl she had been granted, then the merchant would have lived. There were no other masks that shared her sex and she did not want to clean herself in any other form. Sighing, she knew it was a pointless thought. After the death of the snake, it was only a matter of time until the Dragon Queen's followers would pursue anyone responsible for her demise. Including the little girl who slipped in and out of her quarters.

"A girl is too reckless. Another face would have made this easier," he breathed from nearby, always watching protectively. She shrugged, deciding she had enough of the wash. Stepping out, the woman stretched her willowy figure and began to dress into sturdy travel attire. Fasting her hair into a tight braid, she pulled out another face from her pack and gazed at it warily.

"Is it wrong to want to feel my skin when I bathe? To breathe with my lungs and taste with my mouth?"

"It does not matter what we want," he replied, his voice without emotion. Sighing, she slipped on the mask and watched as her body changed.

When they reached the gates of Gulltown, he was a young smith apprentice bringing in newly sharpened blades along with his master. The guards were lazy and fat, their bellies bulging from cheaply crafted armor. It seemed the war had stayed far from this port full of hot headed fishermen and pregnant whores. It did not surprise the boy that dragons would ignore this forgetful place.

Whispers hung in the alleys, peasants keeping their voices low about the Dragon Queen who was slain - in case it wasn't true. _Some sayin' that Snow sliced her face, no'ne coulda be sure 'twas her._

_Should'n ever trust a bastard, I say._

_Now is a little wolf as king. Ye hear 'at?_

The graying head of his master beckoned forward, hearing only words they already knew. Bringing their swords to the first weapons merchant they found, the pair silently walked through the city watching the crowds in carefully concealed interest. There was a caw from above and the master yanked them both into an open doorway. Hiding behind a heavy cart of freshly picked beets, the master raised his ear to listen.

Only when he heard the wings take off did he breathe, leaning on the cracked wood. "What was that for?" the apprentice growled, rubbing his skinny arm. "It was just a raven."

"A raven with the eyes of a man," the master replied, rising from their hiding place. "We must make haste."

Reaching the harbor, they found a ship heading for Braavos and flipped a familiar coin in front of the tempered captain. _Valar Morghulis._

_Valar Dohaeris_. As always, when the master felt the metal in his grip he thought of a girl who outsmarted him, forcing his hand to help her. It was the only time he ever felt - when she shook her head and went her own way. There was a moment of disappointment. It was faint, but even now it lingered.

In the safety of the ship, an apprentice became a woman and felt her long hair with a warm sigh. She held a calculating gaze as the master became a lean young man, most likely a poor farmer's son who suffered from his father's ill choices.

"Have you painted a story for this face?" he asked, his back turned but knowing she was watching. Gracefully he pulled out paper and dipped his quilt into ink, writing of their success. A flame flickered casting a harsh shadow over his muscles and made them more menacing from where she stood.

Hesitantly she reached out, her fingers about to graze his light skin. "Don't," he hissed, his voice marred with an unspoken threat. Shrugging, she pulled her arm back and sank into the cot. Asha would never admit it, but his words hurt inside.

"A man chose a handsome face," she said, burying her desire for the person inside the disguise. For a moment she thought their long journeys together had become enough to develop into something more. What a foolish girl. She did not even know the true shape of the man inside.

"I am sorry," he breathed, halting the word he was writing. "A man does not have a heart."

Every person has a heart. There are many who simply run away from this truth. She has seen the fiercest of stags haunted by the memories of his ill fated love. She has watched a mighty dragon find room in her chest for a gentle wolf.

Thinking of the white haired woman with violet eyes, there was a hint of regret in the vendetta tasked for her. The others warned of this very emotion. It would make her lose sight of the purpose in their actions. When that snake asked if she had delivered, a girl replied she had not. This was a partial truth. A girl followed the cup as it touched a dragon's lips and listened as the liquid poured down her throat. Instead of the tears of Lys she had used a drop of basilisk blood. It was a gamble. Mere mortals would go mad with rage - killing any that dare laid close, and then eventually themselves. But what is a basilisk to a dragon?

* * *

**Mentionable Notes:**

I know, you're thinking **what**? Why end **there **with Dany and then go on about other characters? Well, Martin does that a lot in ASOIAF and I figured to stay close to canon in that regard. Minor characters are always the the ones we learn the most from.

The Basilisk Blood is pulled straight from canon, and from the time of Arya with the Faceless Men no less! Felt a little bit like HP content to be honest (you're a wizard, Harry!). _Anyways_, a basilisk is a King of Serpents, right? Well, then a dragon must be like an emperor, or maybe even a god. Who knows. Targaryens are supposed to have dragon blood in them so what's a *few* drops of the poison gunna do?

Also Asha is pulled from canon too. Remember when Yara Greyjoy was Asha Greyjoy in the books? *wink*


	4. A Fool's Errand

**Please read: **This Fanfiction is **Rated M** and there are explicit scenes just as good ol' Martin writes them! **Warning** this chapter contains brief sex and a considerable amount of curses. This is GOT, folks.

Also I want to get going on the plot so I'll be writing more each chapter and include additional characters. Woohoo!

**Please review and tell me what you think! Feedback is great!**

* * *

**Tyrion**

* * *

**Bronn was behind a rather loud whore **the moment Tyrion walked in, the area between his legs feeling the neglect of all these years. "Seven hells," he groaned, reaching for the wine on the sunken table and pouring himself a rather thick glass. She wasn't nearly as pretty as they used to be - her nose crooked and a considerable amount of wrinkles showing in her limbs.

The woman belched a severe scream, and Bronn grunted before rolling over the bed. Drinking deeply, Tyrion gazed out of the window. "Are you done?" he asked, taking another considerably sip. He wasn't nearly drunk enough for this.

"Aye," Bronn winked, slapping one gleaming cheek before she giggled and ran out of the door. "You should try to fuck every now and then. Might get that mood out of ye," he grinned, sinking into the pillows. "Oh, really? Do tell me how that worked out the last time," Tyrion said murderously, rubbing the back of his pounding head. "Do we even have this kind of money? You're the new master of coin. What are we paying for a brothel like this to build up?"

"Don't ye worry 'bout that, little lord. 've got it all figured out," Bronn smiled wickedly, his hand running up and down his -

Tyrion looked away. "The King has a quest for us."

"_The _fuckin' _King 'as a _fuckin' _quest for us_. Ye tied up good, eh? Are ye his bitch?"

"I'm his hand," Tyrion growled, and then regretted entertaining his friend any longer. "Never you mind."

Walking towards the door, a knife swung into the mantle, sinking deep into the frame close to Tyrion's head. "Aye! Ye don't leave wi'out explaining," Bronn burped, pulling his pants up in a quick motion.

Turning around irritably, Tyrion glared at his friend. "The King needs a doppelganger. Someone to pose for him while he - you know -"  
"Does 'at weird 'ing with the face, aye," Bronn chuckled, rolling his eyes behind his head. "Don't - don't do that. It's already weird enough with him," Tyrion breathed, gripping the bridge of his gnarled nose. "And ye found an unfortunate fucker?"

"Well, I didn't. The King found one for himself. He just wants us to bring the boy."

"Aye. We're we 'eaded?"

Locking eyes with Bronn, he tried to swallow the feeling of gratitude his friend was coming. The request was strange and entirely new to him. Why a King would want a look-a-like was beyond him. "Gulltown, I'm afraid. It's in the Vale, and if we're caught -"

"That wife o'yours will gut ye throat," Bronn smiled wickedly. "Yes, precisely. She is Queen of the North now. We will have to be discreet."  
"Me? Quiet asa mouse, I am," he winked.

In the carriage bound for Gulltown, Bronn opened the window and shouted loudly through the opening. "_Fuckin'_ trip, friend. Why did I agree to come along, when I coulda been fuckin' another preety lass?"

"By the gods!" Tyrion breathed and shut the blinds. "Do you have a death wish?"

"I 'ave some wishes, yeh. Not any ye could 'elp with," his friend said, sinking into the pillows of the seat. "Not unless ye really are a bi-"

"Alright, I've had enough," Tyrion groaned and tapped the carriage to stop. Once it halted he slipped out of the door and breathed the cold air. There was fresh snow sticking on the ground. Shouldn't it have been melting by now? Granted, they had just passed the morbid gates of Harrenhal. Even still -

"Ye think the King might'a give me a larger castle after this li'l favor?" Bronn said, his head sticking out from inside the carriage. "You are the _Lord of Highgarden_! What else could you possibly want?" Tyrion roared, throwing his shoe at the ungrateful sod.

Thankfully, it missed. "I'd say 'tats a consideration," Bronn laughed, and then ducked back in. "Bastard," Tyrion grumbled, and reached for his boot. A raven's crow emitted from above and Tyrion gazed at the bird that landed on the top of the carriage. Bowing awkwardly, the dwarf then shoved his boot on and went back inside.

Once they reached the gates of Gulltown, the pair slung on their cloaks and made a brisk walk through the main streets. "How ta bloody hell are ye gunna find the son o' a fisherman in a place like 'is?" Bronn groaned, scratching his head with the hilt of a dagger. "Reckon ere's too many of em."

A raven swooped into the alley just ahead, crowing loudly. Tyrion thought he could hear the scuffle of feet through the doorway to his left, but he ignored the sound and ran after the bird, Bronn cursing but staying close behind. They continued their chase through several passages until they reached a small market that rested at the very edge of the port. The raven flew through an open window and Tyrion glanced around frantically before finding the door of the crudely built home. Clearing his throat, the dwarf knocked on the wood and pulled out a golden envelope with the seal of the King.

The door opened and a boy stared at the strangers questioningly. It truly felt as if Bran was standing in front of them, except for the blue eyes that blinked back at him. "Who 're ye?" he asked, not knowing how much his life was about to change.

"Did you ever wish you were King?" Tyrion winked, letting himself in.

* * *

**Meera**

* * *

**Waking to the sound of ravens **the brown haired girl jolted from her bed, feeling the furs beneath her fingertips. In her dreams, she could have sworn she saw the heated stare of _his_ eyes, watching, waiting. This whole bloody Stark family was more trouble than they were worth! Sinking her feet to the cold, dusty floor Meera stretched and looked out the stone window. The courtyard of Winterfell was already buzzing with noise, soldiers and merchants passing along in a hurried routine.

The sight of this place was too much to bear. This was where she had to hear how Jojen's sacrifice meant nothing and was only expected from the Third Eyed Raven. Bah! That blasted boy. There was a time he looked at her with warmth in his eyes and a message in his gaze that made her skin heated in a way she had never known before. Then when Meera dragged Bran here with her bare hands and aching bones he discarded her like a horse past her prime.

A knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts and she hastened to cover herself. One of Sansa's maids entered with a pan of hot water and an essence that smelled like the wild North. "Scuse'm, me Lady. I 'ave ere bath wa'er," the young girl blushed, seemingly new at this job. After the war against the White Walkers, well, it was to be expected. So many had died. "I can wash myself," Meera blushed too, but the girl shook her head stubbornly.

"Sorry, I 'ave orders," she explained, hanging close to the door. Sighing, Meera began to strip her clothes. "Alright then."

As the girl washed her now lengthened hair gently and carefully, Meera peered out of the tub and at the frosted window. "Shouldn't the winter fade by now?" she asked, watching the steam of hot water coat the glass. "Reckon ye, but 'er Grace says not ta wurry," the girl replied, dousing Meera's hair again. A wing flashed inside and a raven landed at the edge of the tub, its eyes staring in hers.

Meera's face reddened thinking of Bran and she fluttered her hand at the bird. "Go away," she growled, but the raven only tilted its head. Looking back at the maid, Meera was surprised the girl had not reacted in the way most girls do. There was a glazed expression in her pupils that made Meera face away. Slowly, tentatively, the girl resumed her way through Meera's hair. "Why are you here?" she said, _Bran_ said, in the silence.

Shivering, Meera wrapped her bare chest with her arms. "Warging with another human? I thought that ended with Hodor," she frowned, dipping her hand in the water and pouring it over her neck. The soft fingers of the girl clung to her locks, but she could only feel Bran touching her, breathing on her skin. "That was a Bran who felt sorry for using others. He changed," was the reply.

"No, he didn't. Whatever you are, you aren't him. Bran wouldn't have come in here while I bathed," Meera sneered, although she leaned a little closer to the girl. There was a moment of wordlessness between them. "He might have," the voice breathed, now stroking her small back. "Why are you here?"

"Why not?" she countered, trying her hardest to stare at the ceiling. "Bran's sister summoned me. Who am I to refuse?"

"You are everything," he replied, his touch becoming less gentle. The nails of his fingers were starting to scratch against her spine and she bit her lip from reacting. Whether it was a cry or a moan that would have came out - she wasn't so sure.

"Liar," she gritted through closed teeth. His mouth pressed on her ear and whispered softly. "You are everything."

A caw erupted and the maid screamed, running out of the room, a raven chasing after the poor girl. Meera jumped out of the water and fell to the ground, her heart chattering in her chest. She clutched herself as if the damned organ would fall out from her tight ribs. Taking a hold of her senses she grabbed the cloth next to the tub and began to dry herself in haste. Whatever it was speaking through that girl's mouth, he was paying close attention to her now that she was here. In Winterfell. Why else would he care? There was something about Meera being close to Sansa that worried the boy.

Or man. The way his fingers held her surely felt like a ma-

_Stop it, Meera_ she chastised herself. Throwing on the gown she had on before, she fumbled with the complicated knots and left her hair loose. Quickly pulling out a spare paper and quill, she wrote a statement that could cost her if a raven found it. Tucking it into her sleeve, Meera left her quarters and made her way to the main hall where the court was most certainly eating.

Lady Berena and Lord Glover sat intimately close to their Queen, the Stark who was kissed by fire. Even this far away, she admired the vivid and demanding beauty of Sansa, her blue eyes icy cold and meeting Meera the moment she entered the doors. "Ah, Lady Meera, please do sit next to us. We were just speaking about you," Queen Sansa smirked, a knowing look in her gaze. A shy servant pulled up a chair beside her. "My youngest maid was ever so frightened from that bird incident."

"It was a _raven_, Your Grace," Meera bowed, her eyes never looking away. As if on cue, there was a caw in the distance. Queen Sansa's warm gaze became a contemplating glare, and then it was pushed underneath a layer of blank expression as if it was never there. "Sit," she breathed, and Meera took her place beside the Queen.

"Lord Reed was ever so generous in the men stationed here, as well as in his help of legitimizing the border," Sansa said approvingly, and Meera nodded. "We are loyal to House Stark," she replied, and the woman gave her a quizzical look.

"In fact, after taking care of your brother, I rather hoped we could be friends," Meera smiled, her hand reaching for Sansa's. It was quick and deliberate. The note sank into her fingers and up her sleeve in the sliver of a moment, and the Queen did well in her lack of a reaction.

"I would like that," Sansa replied, a genuine smile this time.

A disturbance rang in the hall, along with the sound of swords clashing. Lord Wyman and his men were suddenly attacking those who were enjoying an early meal, their blood splattering thick and hot on the tables. Screams erupted and many of the ladies ran to the doors that were now closed. "Protect the Queen!" Lord Glover cried and a flank of soldiers circled around Sansa, pushing Meera closer to her due to their proximity. "We serve the true King of the North!" a voice shouted, and bodies crashed amongst themselves. Gasping, Sansa gripped Meera's hand and shouted for order. Just in case, the brown haired girl pulled a blade from her thigh and readied herself.

One of Wyman's men managed to cut through the lines and slashed at the guard nearest Meera. A raven swooped from an open window and began to peck the eyes of the unfortunate man. As he screamed, the guard plunged his sword into the man's belly and his insides poured out on the ground like fallen broth. Queen Sansa groaned, and Meera gave her a supporting squeeze.

Lord Wyman was acting desperately. His men were quickly slain and he was pushed to the ground by one of the guards, his great sword pried from his crushed hand. "You aren't the Queen we chose!" he gasped. Kneeling down to his face, Lord Glover looked up at Sansa with hatred boiling in his eyes. "May I?" he growled, his pudgy hand on the hilt of his blade.

Swallowing, Meera watched as Sansa pushed down her emotions. "He will receive a proper execution, as do all traitors. My father would ask for nothing less," she stated, and it looked like Lord Glover would protest until he heard the old Stark being mentioned. "Aye, that he would," he grumbled, and pulled Lord Wyman to his feet. It was excruciating to watch, a respectable northmen being pushed out the doors of Winterfell. Treason! The Lord that Meera grew familiar with as he dined alongside her father and joked about how stubborn the women were up North. This was a man that when she was young would dangle the girl from her feet and tickle her until she screamed _I yield_! What a fool he was for crossing such a heated Queen.

Feeling a sudden guilt, she thought of her father's careless words. "Not Jon Snow, the bastard. _Aegon Targaryen_!" _Shush_, she would tell her father, sinking her fingers in his scratchy beard. _They'll hear you!_

What a fool _she_ was for thinking she could trust anyone.

* * *

**Khaleesi**

* * *

**A horrible shuddering of her lungs **gave way, harsh air sinking in her body like a drunken sailor who dipped beneath the cruel waves far too long. Greedy, painful breaths racketed down her throat and hot tears poured through her open eyes. The world was a menacing blur that threatened to claw her inside until all she could see was its haunting colors, mocking the life that had been stolen from her.

"Breathe, Khaleesi!" a familiar voice rang in the chaos and she ignored him. Fluidly, instantly, her thoughts came back to the moment when _his_ warm lips were pressed passionately against hers. _Betrayal._ He betrayed her! The dagger cut through her heart so quickly, so violently, and when she peered down as it stuck out of her chest she couldn't believe it. Not _him_. Not the man she gave everything for - not the man she loved so deeply and profoundly it had consumed her in their glory.

_We do it together. We break the wheel - together. _Everyone, everything had been a lie. She was destined to be Queen, and he ripped that destiny with the plunge of his blade. All that she had sacrificed, from the warm embrace of Sir Jorah Mormont to the knowing, heated stare of Missandei and the _dracarys_ that followed, everything was in vain. What was she then? Who was Daenerys Stormborn, Breaker of Chains, truly meant to be? _Nothing_ a voice whispered inside. _You were simply a moment in history_.

A ripe, hateful sob burst from her lips and she cried for the love that had been with her moments before. Drogo had never hurt her - her sun and stars. Where was he now? Where were the Night Lands and the khals and their horses? Where was her suckling babe, her beautiful son?

A soft screech responded to her, dragon scales rubbing against her cheek gently. Suddenly the world righted itself and Dany stared at the amber eyes that waited patiently for her. "No!" she cried, her mind reeling in madness. "No, no, _no_!"

Yanking herself away from Drogon she screamed at him to leave her alone. There were figures in the darkness, fires flickering nearby, but she ignored the voices that tried to soothe her distraught heart. Why was she brought back to this cruel, forsaken world? "Khaleesi, please!"

"Don't!" she hissed, getting up on the stone pedestal she found herself on. Red cloaks gazed in awe and fear, their faces hidden securely behind the shadow of their hoods. There were steps that seemed to descend endlessly on either side of her, a crowd formed at a distance below. Hungry fires roared on pillars that spiraled around the night, their light revealing too much for her to process.

"It's okay," the same familiar voice breathed, and the face of Daario flickered near her. A sigh escaped her, but then she became increasingly angry at herself for allowing any love in her chest after what had happened. "You'll betray me too!" she cried, sinking herself in Drogon's scales. The ebony dragon purred, its mouth opening threateningly to the crowd.

Beside Daario was a person she had only seen once - the Red Priestess from Volantis. "You did this?" Dany growled, her hand now firmly on Drogon. Kinvara stayed cautiously beside her companions, one of them making the Khaleesi bitter and seething. She would never forget the wrinkled man who only watched as she was sold like cattle to the Dothraki. Illyrio's face paled considerably the moment their eyes met.

Turning her attention back to Kinvara, Dany took a dangerous step forward. "Why?" she demanded, sorrow filling her words. "Undo this!"

"The Lord of Light-"

"I don't care what you have imagined your god to say! _I command you to undo what you have done_!" Daenerys shouted, her thoughts ominously lurking on one word.

"I follow the command of the Lord of Light. It is done, I cannot undo it. Even if you were to strike yourself down right now, I would do it again." The Red Priestess did not cower from the dragon's fiery glare. "You have committed an evil deed against innocents and the Lord has heard their cry. Look into the fire, tell me what it is you see?"

There was a considerably sized fire pit in front of the pedestal and Dany gazed at it momentarily. Suddenly she felt compelled to stare into the depths of the fire and a vision poured into her eyes.

A small child was being held securely by the shaking arms of her mother and they huddled against a crumbling wall. Many peasants ran through the alleys of smoke, fire raging from the sky. Taking the hand of her daughter, the woman began to yank her through an open doorway and they fell as the ground was rattled with debris. Stumbling back into the street, they weaved their way through the broken paths as screams littered the air.

A giant shadow flashed overhead and the mother dived behind a wall as the flames scorched every man, woman, and child that was running only a moment ago. "Stop!" Dany cried, but the vision would not relent. The golden haired daughter hugged the leg of her mother, a steady stream of tears spilling over her dirty cheeks. Another screech of Drogon and the alley was filled with the fury of hell.

Giving up, the tired mother sank against the wall and onto the floor, clasping her little girl. "Mother's mercy, please," she whispered, gazing into her child's gentle eyes. Hesitantly, the daughter raised her hand and pressed her palm on the mother's cheek. Then came the shadow again and Dany watched as her fire burned them alive.

Thrown back into the present, she realized she was sobbing and wiped the tears from her face in vain. It was then she remembered the fear and desperation of Jon when he begged her to see what she truly did. Lost in her own self righteousness, Dany did not consider any of her decisions to have been wrongfully made. She only knew the grief of loved ones she had lost and the retribution that followed. Cersei was the enemy, the true enemy, but the bells were ringing.

Why? Why did she do it? "I don't know," she whispered, horrified at what she had become. A murderer! _I hope I deserve it_. Foolish words! What a foolish girl! She had become the Queen of the Ashes, and her mad father would have been proud. _Burn them all!_

"Find yourself again," a masked woman said, her eyes watching with pity. Shaking her head, Dany couldn't do it. She wasn't Azor Ahai - she wasn't the One, and her destiny wasn't foretold. Why bring the Dragon Queen back if she hadn't deserved it?

Shakily, Daenerys lifted herself on Drogon's back, needing to be anywhere but this forsaken place. "Khaleesi!" Daario shouted, but the Red Priestess held him back.

_Vhalar! _she cried, leaning her wet face into Drogon's warm scales. Quickly, her winged child launched himself into the sky and above the clouds where the moon bathed her in its light. It was then she realized she was naked, and was glad for it. She did not deserve to be clothed. Resting on her son Dany cried long and hard, her sobs still entering the world long after the sun had risen.

The pyramid of Mereen gleamed in a golden glow and Drogon landed on his familiar perch above the entrance of her quarters. Slipping onto the balcony, Dany watched as her glorious child took flight across the city and vanished beyond the horizon.

"To go north, you must journey south," a voice echoed from behind and she turned to stare at an empty room. "To reach west you must go east," Dany continued where Quaithe had ended, looking for the masked woman but finding only her quarters. "To go forward you must go back and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow."

Turning again, she found the woman standing firmly in the doorway to the porch, sapphire curtains blowing behind her. "You have suffered beneath the shadow. Now will you touch the light?"

"Did you not mean Asshai?" Dany asked, thinking of the Shadow Lands. The masked woman did not respond, and instead covered herself with one of the curtains. "Wait!" she begged, raising a hand in desperation. "What now? I am alone and without purpose. Why, _why_ do I breathe again?"

Quaithe quivered in the fabric until only a breeze with her voice remained in the cloth. "You are not as alone as you think. The stone dragon stirs."

* * *

**Mentionable Notes:**

May or may not have drank an entire bottle of wine while writing Tyrion's section. Didn't realize that was very Tyrion-like until I was done. *wink*

I was really sad Meera was thrown out of GOT like a discarded piece of furniture. The book version of Bran was much more interested in Meera than the show, and I thought to include that aspect. There's just so much potential!


	5. A Spider's Venom

Sorry that I took longer to write this chapter! Well, technically it is on time but I was writing about two chapters a week and got used to it *shrug*

As promised, there are more characters and longer chapters!**  
And finally as always, please review! It will let me know what you think and gives me a push to keep going :)**

* * *

**Alaine**

* * *

**The smell of freshly baked bread **wafted in the air and through the cracks of patched walls, enticing a girl who was swaying by the stairs outside. Her stomach pains were enough to confirm strong hunger, but she would wait for her brother. "Rowan!" she called, her voice as soft and sweet as honey.

There was a warm laughter that rang from near the snowy fields and a young boy, not yet four years, ran clumsily to his golden haired sister. "Alaine! Alaine!" he sang, and then feigned a stumble to the ground. Gasping, the girl gathered her skirts and ran to her little one, settling to her knees. "Rowan! Wha're ye doin?" she whispered, holding his round face in her hands.

The boy opened one gray eye and then closed it when he realized his sister was watching carefully. "Ye liar!" she screamed, and then ran her elbow between his ribs until he was gasping in laughter.

"Com on, ye. We've fresh bread wi' cheese," she smiled and picked Rowan up to his feet. Grabbing his hand, she pulled him towards their tiny house.

Their papa had already eaten and was eyeing the soil to see if it was time to start tilling. After the cold ones had been defeated at Winterfell the common folk of Karhold were promised a receding cold. Now that the Karstarks were gone the farmers received news from a distance. Alaine wouldn't dare contradict the Queen, but it seemed to her as if the winter was still here. What did that mean for her family? She didn't dwell on it.

Back inside, the fireplace was doing wonders to the crisp air and Alaine pushed her brother closer to it, wrapping him in a quilt she had sewn herself. "M fine," he protested, but she would have none of it. "Ye know not te go out wi' out me," she chastised. Grabbing a loaf from the basket she kept by the fire, Alaine handed him a piece with a generous slice of goat cheese. Their food was always low, but she made sure the young boy had his fill.

Thanking the gods, she watched as her brother hastily shoved the food in his mouth. Quickly his eyes watered - the bread was still very hot. "Patience!" she laughed, and tucked loose hair behind his ear. If it weren't for her father and older brothers saving every coin they could during the prosperous summer - Alaine was sure their family would have died along with the less fortunate peasants.

"M ting, ms jus m ood," he said with a full mouth. "Wha'?" she lifted one eyebrow. The boy took a considerable amount of time to chew and then swallowed painfully. "M tryin', isa just so good!" he roared, and they both began to laugh until they cried, clutching each other for support.

Deep into the night, the girl held her brother in her arms covered in layers of blankets. She could feel the cold slip into the house and assert its presence in her bones. Shivering, she tucked Rowan deeper in the nook of her neck.

There was the sound of cracking glass and the girl jerked to sit up, her brother sinking deeper into the mattress. Staring at the pale window, Alaine watched as frost crept across its surface and deeper cracks sunk into the glass. Suddenly, the material broke apart and a harsh, bitter wind swept into their quarters.

The gentle fire that was near their bed died out instantly and Alaine shakily rose to her feet. "Papa?" she whispered, reaching for the dagger he had left for her. _Ye ne'er know_ he once told his daughter.

"Papa!" she yelled, and then there was a thrashing coming from the direction of the kitchens. "Run!" his voice cried and the sound of her brother's' swords clashing told her everything she needed to know. The fear in her chest grew in an unnatural way. These intruders - they couldn't be bandits. They had no money! There were far too many men protecting this home for petty thieves to risk their lives for potential bounty. Then what? Who would attack them?

Rowan was now awake and locked his widened eyes with hers. Running to the door, she began to push a heavy drawer to block the entrance. Realizing what she was doing, Rowan came up to help and they struggled together until it was in place. There were sounds from her brothers that made the hairs on her arms rise and she felt tears running down her face. A scuffling behind the door brought her attention.

"Get out o' ere! Is de dead!" her father breathed, and then he cried before the door rattled with weight. There were screeches that followed and Alaine knew that Papa was no more.

"Papa!" Rowan screamed, and then more unholy noises began to collect behind the door. Sprinting to her brother, Alaine yanked him with her to the open window. "Shush!" she begged and covered his crying mouth. Lifting her feet through the frame, she pulled her quivering brother in her lap before jumping out.

They hit the hard ground and she knew without a doubt that her foot was sprained. Reeling in the overwhelming pain, Alaine thought only of her brother and bolted in the direction of the woods. The moon was covered with stormy clouds and she could barely see the trees before avoiding running into them, clutching her injured leg desperately. The chorus of terrifying screeches seemed to fade away until only the sound of the wind was left as it rustled through knotted branches.

Alaine's heart beat sporadically and she pulled them in the direction of the cliffs. Although the sea made the shore unforgivingly cold, there were caves she was sure the pair could hide in. Her thoughts couldn't process anything beyond that goal. Silently she thanked the gods that her brother was complying without restraint. She wouldn't know what to do if he started screaming.

Reaching the ragged edge of the cliff Alaine gripped her brother tightly and looked out. There, on the bed of the shore, there were numerous crudely built ships for as long as the eye could see. At the prow of the closest ship, a man, no, a _corpse _turned, his eyes bright and blue. Grey lips. In horror, she watched as he began to smile.

It was then she realized these were not men at all, but the undying ones. Most of the rotting figures were running into the ships, but some...some were sinking back into the trees. Towards the cliffs.

Towards her.

* * *

**Arya**

* * *

**There was a strange rumor **creeping through the cracks of Braavos and Arya shivered upon hearing it. The common folk spoke of a shadow in the sky spotted near Pentos and flying in the direction of Old Valyria. Is that where the dragon decided to bring her?

Another whisper caught her ear - of the Dragon Queen alive and well, and in Meereen. Some of the peasants believe the Lord of Light brought her back from the dead, but what do they know about magic and prophesy?

Then again, wasn't that how Jon came back? Arya stopped walking in the busy street, lost in her thoughts.

Was it possible?

"The Many Faced God does not welcome you here. Nor does the House of Black and White," a voice whispered from a corner, but Arya was not fooled enough to look for it. "A girl has done nothing wrong. The Many Faced God asked for a face, and I gave one," she replied, continuing down the weathered path. The warm air felt soothing on her skin, and her heart was calm. The Faceless Men wouldn't attack unless her name was given, and there were none alive that could seek revenge. She had made sure of that.

A child stepped out from one of the doorways and faced Arya, her stare making it clear she was more than her years. Circling around, the girl inspected Arya with a hint of distaste. "I don't see what he finds in you," she growled, leaning on her heels once she felt content in her judgement.

"He?" Arya raised an eyebrow, her hand twitching for Needle. The small movement was enough for the girl and she lashed out with the quickness of a cat, a blade spinning towards Arya's chest.

Blocking the attack with one swift arm, Arya danced around the girl with ease, keeping her steps light and graceful. The girl changed tactics and slid her leg in an attempt to unbalance the Stark, but Arya jumped and pushed against the wall, launching herself to the other side of the alley.

Sliding to her direction, the girl inched a dagger between her hands, trying to lodge it up the ribs in a fatal blow. Again, Arya twisted away before the edge hit its target and used the girl's body to twist around, prying the dagger away. Another blade appeared out of the stranger's side and she raised it high before pummeling it down to Arya's face. This time, the weapon managed to cut her cheek before she stumbled back.

Little did she know that Arya had allowed it so she could slash her dagger at the girl's inner thigh.

Screaming, the child breathed heavily, standing a few feet away and clutching her leg. Her hand shot to the edge of her face as if to pry it off, but then a figure stepped out from the shadows.

"Enough!" a familiar voice yelled, and Arya froze in her tracks. "Jaqen?" she breathed, not daring to take a step in his direction.

The little girl gave a cruel laugh, wrapping her wound with fabric she had ripped from her shirt. "You did not tell me she doesn't know your name."

Looking back and forth from Jaqen's figure to the unnamed girl, Arya stayed quiet. Was that his lover? Something unusual furrowed in her chest and she glared at the girl, wishing with every ounce of her being to see the person who was beneath it.

Why? Why did she care?

"Jaqen," she said again, her hand reaching. This was the person that saved her so long ago. She knew the person who had trained her in the House of Black and White wasn't Jaqen, and inwardly she understood that this man wasn't truly Jaqen either. But it was the only name she had.

"A man is no one," he responded, sinking back from where he came from. There was the sound of laughter again, but when Arya turned the little girl wasn't there.

"A man is nothing!" she screamed, knowing her words didn't make any sense and that she probably wouldn't see him again. The very thought made her angry and she kicked the stone wall, yelling until her lungs gave way. This was her chance - her one chance, and it had slipped through her fingers.

For a couple of days she roamed the streets of Braavos, not certain whether or not she could head back to the docks. It was too dangerous to go to the front door of the House of Black and White and bang on the wood until someone answered. What if they stuck a poison dart in her?

Deciding there was nothing else to do Arya made her way to the island and climbed up the steps she said she would never grace again. Slamming her fist on the door, she waited for the kindly man to answer. When the sun had set and nothing had changed, Arya pushed the door open and walked in with her head held high and her hand gripping Needle.

In the room with the still pool and surrounding statues, Arya watched as a wrinkled woman brought the deadly water to the lips of a sickly child. "Sleep," she whispered, and the child closed his eyes. This reminded her too much of when Arya had done the exact thing, and she looked away to rid herself of the memory.

"A girl is no one?" the kindly man asked, and she turned to face him. Instead of Jaqen, the Faceless Man had chosen to use the original face she had seen when she first went to Braavos. "A girl is no one," she assured him, feeling the truth of the statement. Whatever she was, it wasn't Lady of Winterfell.

"A name was given," he began, eyeing her with calm collectiveness. When she didn't respond, he continued. "A gambler known as Weyd. If a girl chooses, she can find him in the city of Qarth."

Arya walked beside the old man, thinking about what it meant to be receiving this task. After what had happened with Lady Crane, well, she knew how she would react to killing an innocent person. Perhaps this Weyd deserved to die?

Why bother following along with the Faceless Men? What would she earn following their orders?

The face of Jaqen flashed in her thoughts and Arya made up her mind. If the man wouldn't speak with her outside of the House of Black and White, then she would find a way to speak to him here.

"A girl will deliver a life to the Many Faced God," she responded, lowering her head just slightly. The kindly man placed his hand under Arya's chin before wobbling into the corridor.

"You will fail, as you have before." There was a woman leaning on the wall that had clearly listened to the conversation. Remembering the little girl, Arya glared at her. "The Waif had similar feelings," she said cooly, and then turned to walk towards her old quarters.

With her hand at the door she felt a presence from behind and left her fingers an inch from the handle. She watched as her arm quivered and held her breath.

"Does a girl know how to reach Qarth?"

"No, but a girl will learn," she replied, lowering her hand. "It shouldn't be hard."

"A girl will have assistance," Jaqen breathed. What did he mean? "From a man?"

"Yes."

Turning around, she looked for the figure that wasn't there. Sighing, she slipped into her room and closed the door.

* * *

**Jon**

* * *

**The night is dark and full of terrors **a voice warned in Jon's head, and he lifted himself from the crudely made bed. Why was he thinking of those words right now? Feeling the chill of winter's grasp, he clung a little tighter to his furs and glanced out through the slip between his tent.

Nothing unusual was happening. There was the flicker of a stocked fire in the middle of the camp and a couple of wildlings that were keeping watch. Why did he hear whispers in the darkness? Where was Ghost?

A sudden urgent feel emerged that he couldn't quite shake away and reaching for his sword Jon placed it at his side and stepped outside. Walking quietly to the edge of the trees he unsheathed his blade and listened. The sound of rustling branches was faint like a whisper in silence, touching ever so gently on waiting ears. Cold, bitter air slivered its way through the world and into Jon's skin, feeling as if daggers were slightly pressing into his flesh.

Staring into the darkness there was a stirring that could have been mistaken by any other as a trick in the eye, but Jon knew better. Making one distinct bird call, he signaled to the camp there was something wrong. The nervous neighing of their horses confirmed his gut feeling.

In no more than a few moments Tormund appeared by his side with a drawn sword. Jon raised one single finger to his mouth and motioned to the trees. Nodding, the red haired man stayed silent and joined in the waiting.

They stood there for some time, the cold growing harsher, more violent, until it felt as if they were suffocating. Quite dramatically Tormund lifted his hand and made a scraggly movement that Jon glared at. What did he mea-

A blood curdling screech ripped through the night and ice blue eyes, eight of them, blinked back at Jon from a distance. One long, pale white leg stretched out into the moonlight, and then another, until it was a mass of gnarled limbs supporting a monstrous body. The ice spider's fangs dripped with menacing clear venom and it opened its mouth to screech again.

A new set of eyes appeared to the right, and then another, until the darkness was full of a terrifying blue. They began to mash their fangs and approach, sizing up the enemies in front of them. "We need te run," Tormund breathed, and one of the wildlings behind them took a step back. The moment his foot lifted the ground, the creatures began to scream together and bolted at full speed to the camp.

"Fall back!" Jon roared, turning around and heading to the horses. The edges of his vision became a blur of men and women whirling in different directions. Some brave fools rose their spears and began to charge at the oncoming horde, ignoring Jon's command. Glancing back, he watched in horror as the spiders easily overpowered each person, ripping their flesh in half. Others realized after being bitten they could not fight the beasts and were lucky to escape before it was too late.

Grabbing the reigns of his horse, Jon hauled himself on and yelled for the others to follow. There was the terrible sound of screaming and the gleeful screeches of the spiders, clicking their fangs in horrific delight. Taking one last look, he saw a wildling still at camp plunge one of the dragon glass daggers into a spider and it cried out before crumbling to the ground.

"Use your dragon glass!" he commanded, and then galloped at full speed towards the Wall. Tormund rode by his side and made the scraggly move with his hand again. "It ment spiders!" he roared.

Jon breathed a sigh of relief when he noted the spiders were slower than the horses. They did not dare stop until the sun was in the sky and they could see the Wall in the distance. Slowing down, he gave his mount a chance to breathe. Taking a look at the survivors Jon cringed at the sight of a little less than half of the amount they came with. That location was perfect for building - it had fresh water by the wallowing river, and the height of the cliffs for protection.

Suddenly growing angry, Jon slipped off his horse and began to punch the bark of a nearby tree until his hand was bloody and his knuckles were close to breaking. Everything he did - every sacrifice he had made was to ensure the safety of the people around him. Now they would bury more bodies, just as they had when Dan-

Grunting, Jon pushed his back to the tree and sank to the ground. Ghost sat down next to him, and Jon placed his hand on the wolf's white fur, staining it red. "Where have you been?" he whispered, feeling calmer. The wolf only blinked.

Tormund also dismounted and walked carefully to his friend. "We 'ave wounded," he said, making the scraggly motion with his hand. "From de spiders."

"Venom?" Jon asked, and Tormund stared at him with a blank face. "Who's 'at?"

Jon groaned and thought of another way to say it. "Were they bitten?"

"Some, aye," Tormund nodded. Getting up and wiping the blood from his hand on the snow, Jon walked to the other wildlings to make a quick inspection. Some of them had dismounted too and were huddled over their knees, gasping from the pain. Puncture marks riddled a few, but others were lucky enough to only have scratches.

"Has anyone survived being bitten?" Jon asked, looking closer at one groaning old man. "Aye."

"Let's head to the Wall, and we'll ask for help from there," Jon said, building a plan in his head. Surely a maester would know how to treat these bites. Either Sansa or Bran would give assistance. They had to help. Most importantly, the Wall would need protection to guard against these monsters. The amount they had fought - there was bound to be more. Jon had seen thousands of the creatures with his own eyes not far from there.

The Realms had to know.

"How much dragon glass do we have?" he asked Tormund, and the red haired man shook his head. "Reckon most of 'em er lost," the man answered, scratching his wild beard. "Ask yer sister."

Jon nodded grimly and helped lift wounded back on the horses before continuing their journey.

Reaching the gates at nightfall, he felt more at peace when the twisted metal began to lift and the wildlings were safe. Spurring his horse to the courtyard, Jon jumped to his feet and began to race up the steps towards where the ravens were kept. A few of the guards asked what had happened but Jon ignored them and did not slow until he was in front of the cages.

What he did not expect were for the ravens to be missing. Staring wide eyed at the absence of the birds, a scuffle behind him emerged. "Scuse mi lord, while ye were gone ta ravens -"

"What happened?" Jon demanded, spinning around. A wiry boy startled and began to scratch his arms nervously. "-W-we dun no, nothin was a'miss and den they started a-actin' all strange like. Den yesterday they died, and we fed em to dem hounds, w-we did."

"They died? How?"

"Reckon they wen' mad," the boy stammered, looking down at Jon's feet. "S-sorry."

Staring back at the empty cages, Jon's mind began to spin. Why would the ravens all die so suddenly? Marching out of the room and back into the courtyard, Tormund waved him over frantically. "De bloody spiders are 'ere," he warned.

"What, outside of the Wall?"

"Aye, and headin' towards de open part!"

Walking in circles, Jon thought of the numbers. If they used dragon glass arrows, then maybe they could hold the spiders long enough for a messenger to get to Winterfell. Barking the order to a nearby soldier, Jon watched as the man ran towards the armory in haste. So long as the Night's Watch guarded the broken shaft the spiders wouldn't be able to get through. The same guard ran back up to the pair, heaving shaky breaths. "We don't 'ave more dragon glass," he cried, resting his hands on his trembling knees. "Is missing!"

Thousands of monsters had spilled out of the mountains seemingly nonexistent before and there was no raven in sight. Something unnerving felt amiss. "Bran!" Jon yelled into the courtyard, nearly crazed from the overwhelming tension. "Where are you?!"

One of the wounded was resting against a barrel and slumped over to the dirt ground, no longer breathing. The surrounding crowd simmered into a silent watch, gazing at the corpse for any movement.

It couldn't be! They had fought the white walkers - _and won_. Arya had stabbed the Night King herself, killed the lifeless villain with the tip of her blade! What was left of Viserion had collapsed into a pile of rotting flesh and bones in front of Jon to witness! Every wight, each of those blasted creatures had melted into nothingness before his very eyes. Going to Dragonstone, meeting _her_, speaking to Cersei, bending the knee, it was all worth it in the end because _they had won_.

Despite everything, Jon watched in bitter madness as the corpse stirred and rose, his blue eyes gleaming.

Screaming in rage and agony, hate and excruciating regret, pain and bittersweet remembrance, Jon tore limb after limb until the body was wriggling on the ground. Even after its head had been severed and its movement slowed to a stop, Jon screamed and wracked his sword against the flesh, willing it to burn, willing everything to burn.

Another wight ran out from the hall towards the healing ward and lashed out with a spear at Jon, but he had already gotten to his feet and promptly split the corpse in half. There was yelling in the halls and the group launched towards the sounds, cutting through any undead along the way.

In a singular awareness, Jon sliced tore through the monsters without hesitation, not even aware his shoulder had been cut. His fury was a blinding chaos that swallowed the world and everyone around him. All that there was, all that mattered, was ending the evil that had tainted his life.

Soon the fighting had ended and Jon was not ready to put down his sword. "Ere's no more," Tormund breathed to him, and Jon did not lower his blade. "There's always more," he whispered, his hands shaking. "There's always more."

While the men prepared for the coming spiders, a slew of guards approached the gates with Stark sigil on their banners. Jon was leaning over the map of the Wall when they entered and looked up, suddenly hopeful. Did Bran actually hear him? Was this the aid they needed to fight against the horde?

Making his way to the courtyard, Jon waited with bated breath as the guards poured through. Quickly and orderly, the soldiers rushed into a circle surrounding Jon on all sides and unsheathed their swords. Confused, he did not move. Slowly, hesitantly, he placed his blade on the ground. Taking a glance at Tormund, Jon noted the man's eyebrows were furrowed. He was just as surprised. "What's this about?"

"Jon Snow, you are hereby charged with Treason against Lady Sansa of House Stark - the Queen of the North."

* * *

**Mentionable Notes:**

Lowkey was going to write more for Jon, but then I realized how long it has been since I last uploaded (a week) and figured I could wait for the rest. *Makes scraggly hand motion*

Alaine is my take on the book version if she was never pretending to be Arya Stark and didn't marry that rotten Ramsay Bolton. What do you think happened to her? That was a one-shot I don't plan on continuing so your guess is as good as mine.


	6. A Lizard's Guide

I am **one day** late, but in my defense it was a lot more than I've written in the previous chapters! This is a _tense_ read, let me tell you. Be prepared!

Thank you everyone who has **favorited**, **followed**, and **reviewed** my Fanfiction! I can't tell you how grateful and beyond excited I am when I see another notification about you guys.

**As always, let me know what you think!**

* * *

**Tyrion**

* * *

**Sitting at the docks of King's Landing** a certain dwarf was pretending the cold air was not making him shiver in his boots. The calculating Lannister watched as Bryden was wheeled to the balcony that overlooked the bay, clad in royal fabric and not saying a word to the guards. Everything about the boy spoke of Bran, except, of course, those ocean blue eyes that seemed to snare any unlucky few who deemed it safe to glance.

"That boy is doin good for himself, I reckon," Bronn grinned, his leg up against the railing.

"So long as he doesn't open his mouth."

Noting a familiar maester decked in heavy chains, Tyrion gave his friend a look and Bronn walked away grunting. "Ye no were te find me."

"Samwell," Tyrion greeted, clutching his cloak a little tighter to wane the frost. "Tyrion. I-I hope you're doing well. You see, I wanted to speak with you," the nervous man began, sitting into the empty chair next to him.

"How's he doing?" the dwarf asked, not giving a clear name but knowing Sam would understand to whom he was referring. "Oh, well, I don't know. I sent a raven to ask, but Sansa - that is, the Queen of the North, she replied with an apology that she had no news after he traveled beyond the Wall. I think it'll do him some good, the space, especially after all that had happ-p- well, you know," Samwell rambled on, scratching his head this way and that.

"It was for the best," Tyrion sighed, and then rose from his seat. "Did you look into that matter we spoke about?"

"Y-yes, that's why I came, in fact. I sent a raven to Old Town for answers, but they haven't replied since then and I haven't known ravens to take so long to deliver a message. Either the Maesters aren't writing back, or, well -"  
"They never got the message," Tyrion finished, assuming as much. But why?

"According to the books, and I have read quite a few on the topic, there isn't a good reason for spring to be taking this long. The only explanation I can think of -"

"No, that is impossible," said Tyrion, waving the thought away. "Perhaps the King was wrong. He is a fairly new Three Eyed Raven, after all."

"Y-yes, I did read somewhere that the last one was at least a thousand years old. Although I don't reckon Bran will live that long - it has to do with the weirwood trees, you know."

"What? The King has never told me this."

Sam leaned a little deeper into his chair, sweat clinging to his brow. "He didn't exactly tell me either. Besides, it's not like it matters. There are no weirwood trees here, and even if they were I have a feeling it'd be the ones up North. Beyond the wall North, I mean."

Thinking of the doppelganger that was parading above them, Tyrion said nothing. What if -

No, Bran would have told him if he was planning on leaving King's Landing. _He could rule through Bryden_ said a suspicious voice in his head. _He wouldn't need to physically be here_.

"Do you think a Three Eyed Raven could warg into a human?" Tyrion asked, right after checking to see if there were any particular black birds within ear shot. Leaning closer to the dwarf Sam shuffled his hands.

"I don't see why not. Jon once said Bran warged with that big fellow to protect the Reed children."

"Reed? As in House Reed in the North?"

"The very same. There was a little boy, Jojen, although he died from the wights I reckon. And then a girl, Meera Reed. Why, I heard she is with San - the Queen of the North, right now."

"Meera," Tyrion said softly, trying to connect the situations. "Well, these are troubling matters indeed. Besides the girl, who is a mere curiosity, I will try to speak with the King and sort this out. There have been rather a large stack of letters coming in that are complaints from the common folk about the unrelenting winter. Even I cannot ignore the air has only seemed to grow colder still."

"Alright. If you can't find me, listen for the chains," Sam smiled, and struggled with getting out of his chair before wobbling down the way he had come.

Taking a sip of his wine for the first time that day Tyrion sank deeper in his thoughts.

The next morn, the dwarf was feeling rather empowered after securing what was left of the Iron Bank's good graces and noting the treasury was starting to grow. Making quick work of the steps to the King's quarters, it came to a great surprise that the Kingsguard would not let him through.

"The King is preoccupied," one of the men explained, a dazed look in his face. "As I have not seen the King in some time, I must insist on checking on His Grace, at the very least for his health," Tyrion demanded, fixing the symbol on his chest to make it clear he was a rather important figure.

"He will not be seeing anyone today," the guard replied. Groaning, the dwarf debated on arguing some more or looking for an alternative. Deciding on the latter, he went to find the Captain instead. Surely Brienne would let him through.

"They what?" she stammered, looking as if the very mention of impropriety in her own men was worth a lifetime of shame. "Exactly. So if you would, please allow me to see the King," Tyrion said, running a hand through his hair.

"I hadn't received such an order. This doesn't seem right. Rather than draw attention, I will simply take the place of one of the guards for the night and allow you through. We will see where the commands had come from," she explained, and Tyrion rather liked the idea. Nodding, he walked out of the hall to preoccupy himself with other matters.

When the time came Tyrion made his way back to the King's quarters and was relieved to find Brienne standing there. "So will you let me in?" he asked, taking steps to walk past the guards.

Suddenly feeling a rough hand push him back, Brienne glared at him menacingly. "The King is preoccupied," she growled, every trace of their previous conversation gone.

"What? I thought you would allow me through! We spoke earlier about this!" Tyrion fumed. A flash of recognition shone in Brienne's face before it became a blank slate once again. "He will not be seeing anyone today," she replied, her voice lacking any warmth.

Staring at the tall woman in complete shock, Tyrion realized what was wrong. "On the day Renly Baratheon was killed by a shadow, what face did you see? Who killed him?"

Breathing heavily, it looked as if Brienne was fighting something inside. Slowly, tentatively, her mouth opened, but no words came out. Again, her emotions were flushed into nothingness.

"The King is preoccupied."

Taking one step back, and then another, Tyrion wheeled around and ran down the steps as fast as his legs could carry him.

* * *

**Meera**

* * *

**The ocean was spread out **like the plains near her home and as still as they felt after the snow had fallen quietly in the night. Thinking of winter, the air had suddenly become thick with clusters of shining white, floating and fluttering around her skin like the butterflies in spring. Then the water rippled, and a flower bloomed beneath its surface, a rose all fiery red and taunting in all of its splendor.

Gazing at the flower, and then the gentle waves that rocked under her toes, and then the sky that was bluer and more beautiful than Sansa's eyes, Meera stopped breathing.

"What are you thinking?" a voice whispered, steady and true.

Spinning around, Meera's locks hugged her face and she pushed them away to look at the owner of the voice. Bran was standing, tall and silent, a warning that had taken the form of a man. For his shadow was great, and she trembled at the mere glance of it.

"This is a dream," she breathed, trying to make an explanation of the spectacular events around her. The white specks had begun to change into the scattered petals of a thousand colors as her heart rammed in her chest.

"Is it? I suppose it is like a dream," he replied. One step. Bran had taken one step closer.

Realizing his shadow was moving, Meera squinted and made out the form of numerous ravens like the schools of fish gathering together behind him.

"Are we Seeing?" she asked, subconsciously reaching a hand out to Bran. "Is this your doing?"

Bran shook his head, gazing at the petals with a fond appreciation. She wondered which question he was answering. He seemed boyish. Human, even. This was the Bran before he became the Three Eyed Raven. And the shadow -

"I have done nothing. I am merely a witness to what you are doing," he explained, walking around Meera and eyeing her as if it would explain the question in his eyes.

"What am I doing?"

"You are dreaming visions, as Jojen had."

The air suddenly rippled with tension and the floating colors burst with flames, becoming ash that poured through the cracked sky. Then they were in the Red Keep, watching as hell pierced the ceiling from an ebony dragon that roared with a hint of white on top.

The painted walls melted and they were in another castle she couldn't recognize. In it there were stone limbs and wings, and then an amber eye peered back at her.

Then they were past the Wall, watching the weirwoods catch on fire with sad songs coursing in the world.

The light snuffed out in a moment and in the darkness she heard screeches that buried deep into Meera's mind, as they always had in her nightmares.

"Stop! Stop!" she screamed, flailing her arms until she found Bran and tucked herself in his chest.

Saying no words of comfort, Bran simply held her until the ocean spread across the ground once more.

"My strength is failing. I do not know how long I will be here. Beware the Other me," he whispered, his lips pressed in her hair. She shivered.

"The other you? What do you mean?"

"Go North. Find the Weirwood again, and be wary of the ravens," he said, his voice rushed and urgent. Leaning back, Meera looked into his eyes.

"Come with me," she breathed, knowing his words were meant to serve as a goodbye and dreading the thought of leaving the Bran she knew. It had been so long since she last spoke with him. The ravens in his shadow began to churn and caw, their feathers scattering and covering the entirety of the water.

"Run!" he screamed, and she watched in horror as the soft, golden brown of his eyes became a stark, menacing blue.

Waking up with sweat sticking to her skin Meera breathed heavily, trying in vain to let the rush settle down. The sound of a bustling keep made her question whether any of it had actually happened.

There were a few shouts from outside, likely guards, and she rose from the comfort of her bed to peer out the window. What she had not expected was the dark curly hair of Jon Snow walking through the gates with a crowd of soldiers that held drawn swords.

The shouts had not been from the men, rather, it was the crowd that yelled in an uproar. She heard a string of names that made the entire situation more confusing.

_Traitor!_

_The true King of the North!_

_Bastard!_

Deciding this was important to witness, Meera shakily dressed herself and rushed down the steps to the main hall. Hastily making her way through the crowd of northmen, she brought herself close to Sansa who was already seated and appearing rather nervous, despite her supporters standing beside her faithfully.

Jon Snow walked through the main doors with a gait that spoke of a man who had faced death and lived to tell the tale. The great white wolf she had heard about was nowhere to be seen. Many in the audience appeared awed at his presence, filled with the memories of the once great Lord Stark that lived in these walls.

What a gamble - to bring the bastard here. Why would the Queen choose to risk such an act? That attack with Lord Wyman, and then again with Lord Cley just a few days after, they had both died to fight in the lone wolf's name. In response many of the lords began to question the choice of their Queen, when their once King resided so closely to them.

"What is the meaning of this, Sansa?" Jon demanded, his voice echoing in the hall for all to hear. A rush of whispers followed. Looking considerably paler than before, the Queen rose from her throne with the cloak of a white bear falling elegantly behind her.

"'My grace' will do. As for your arrest, it is simply to find the truth in what has happened. These past few months there have been numerous attacks by lords claiming to support your right to this throne. What say you, Jon Snow? I cannot ignore so many men spouting the same nonsense, and I would rather hear your support in person."

_She is afraid_ Meera thought. This wasn't about framing Jon - this was solidifying her claim to the throne. If Jon bent the knee, publicly, here at Winterfell, it could stop the lords from trying to chase a man that clearly did not want to be King.

It was a reasonable request, and a nonviolent solution. Meera was rather impressed with Sansa's way of thinking.

Instead of following his sister's lead, however, Jon Snow seemed to grow very, very angry.

"_This_ is why you pulled me from the Night's Watch? Are you mad?"

Even Sansa, with all her tricks of appearing calm, seemed shocked by his response. "Were you preoccupied with the cold? Or was it repairing the Wall?" The snarky sarcasm in her voice was harsh and bitter. No, it was deeper than that. Sansa was genuinely hurt.

Now livid, Jon let go of any restraint in his anger. "We were planning our defense against ice spiders. They had come out of nowhere, there are _thousands _of them, and they are heading through the Wall as we speak. I watched with my own eyes one of my men die. I watched as he came back!

Sansa, _Winter is still here_! Damn you! The White Walkers are not gone!"

The northmen were now in an uproar and the Queen's mouth opened wide in shock. Sputtering, she couldn't find the right words to respond and instead gazed at her supporters for help.

"Liar!" one of the lords cried, disbelief coursing in his face.

A raven flew in through the window and Meera stared at it in horror. Rushing up to one of the men, she pulled a bow from the table and nocked an arrow into place. With the string by her lips, she let the arrow loose and struck the raven through the eye.

Another raven entered, and again she aimed, ignoring the cries of men that had misunderstood her sudden firing. Recognizing what Meera was doing, the Queen shouted for the guards to do the same and they reached for any bows in the vicinity. Soon, there were only dead ravens on the floor.

"Kill any bird or animal that enters these doors! They are spies!" Meera warned, and Sansa nodded her head, understanding what she was saying without words.

"Clear the hall! Everyone except for Jon Snow, Lord Glover, and Lady Meera!" the Queen commanded, and the crowd reluctantly dispersed through the entrance.

Once the doors were bolted and shut, along with the windows, Sansa turned to the girl. "Is it Bran?" she asked, making sure she was straight to the point.

Meera nodded. "It is the Other Bran. I had a dream, that is, a vision. In it his eyes were blue, like the -"

"White walkers," Jon finished, and Meera nodded. "I don't know how, or why, but Bran told me to go North - to the Weirwood where he became the Third Eyed Raven."

"Are you - are you a warg, like him?" Sansa asked. Lord Glover only watched quietly, his eyes spinning with questions. "Well, I'm not entirely sure. Last night was my first dream vision. Bran visited me there, the real Bran, your brother before everything had happened."

"He told you of this Other Bran?"

"Yes. I don't know what that meant, but one thing is certain - Bran was afraid of the Other him."

Thinking, Jon began to walk back and forth. "When the ice spiders attacked the free folk it was as if they knew where we were. I'm starting to believe it was the ravens. They were always around, until that night.

Then when we retreated to the Wall the messenger ravens were all dead. A steward boy said they had gone mad just before the attack. After, when the corpses of the fallen rose back to life, well, then I knew. It hasn't gotten warmer, Sansa, it's only grown _colder_, freezing those who found themselves without a strong fire. This all leads to one explanation."

"But why Bran?" Sansa breathed, folding her arms. "Isn't he the Three Eyed Raven, as he always declared? Didn't the Night King go to the Godswood to kill our brother?"

Thinking of back when Bran was with her and the Greenseer, she remembered the mark that appeared on his skin after the Night King clasped him in his vision.

Explaining this to the Starks, Meera came to her own conclusion. "Unless he was tainted by the Mark. Bran became the Three Eyed Raven that very same night. What if something happened that affected the process? What if his Greenseer side is - well, what if it is evil?"

"Like the White Walkers?"

"Yes, which would explain the Other Bran."

"One thing is certain. Sansa, you will have to convince the northmen to leave their Houses behind and go South. My men are already on their way to the empty House Umber, preparing for the horde of ice spiders on their way. It was the best I could do for them while I am here."

"The Lords are stubborn and will refuse to abandon their keeps," Lord Glover pitched in, reminding them all of the pride of the North. "They could refuse if we were requesting their leave. This is a demand, from Queen Sansa herself. If they do not appear to be leaving, you must _force_ them," Jon advised, and Meera nodded her head in agreement.

"How will we fight the ice spiders? Are the wights coming too, just as before?" Sansa questioned, her mind reeling with dreadful memories of the Crypt.

"We will need dragon glass, as we did before. There are less men available, and much fewer resources without Dan- without allies. I suggest we retreat to House Reed, as Lord Reed is less hostile towards the free folk and we can reach the Vale for support in time," Jon explained.

"Dragon glass? We do not have any. The King had asked for our supply, as a present. Tyrion was to make a statu - what fools we were! He had been planning this all along!"

"Everything that has happened, it was to divide us. The Night King might have known he wouldn't survive the battle here at Winterfell, and he kept some of his reserves for another time. We should expect his next strike to be even harder than before."

"We must find more dragon glass," Meera began, thinking of the castle with the winged creature that held the walls together. "At Dragonstone? That would take a month to travel there and back, without including the time it takes to mine the bloody rock!" Jon growled, disliking the idea of going to a place with so many painful memories.

"Is that keep held up by a stone dragon?" Meera asked, and Jon peered at her with suspicion. "You dreamt of it too?"

"I- well, yes. I saw a glimpse, amongst other things,"

Seemingly conflicted, the man was inwardly fighting on whether or not he should reveal more of his dream. "Did the creature call you too?"

"No, I only saw it from a distance," Meera answered slowly, and then her eyes lit up with a realization. "You should go there. If it is as you say, then I have a feeling you are needed in that place. It would allow you to secure the dragon glass, at any rate."

"I can't," was his reply, and he turned away from them.

"Just as the Lords of the North will say they can't abandon their keeps. They _will_, and so will you," his sister snipped, standing tall and determined, quite like her mother.

Sighing, Jon rubbed his temple. "I think I'm going mad," he breathed, his arms shaking. "They are a nightmare that never ends."

"You're not mad, Jon. We will get through this, as we had before. Together," Sansa said warmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "And I am sorry, for pulling you from the Wall, that is. Had I known -"

"You couldn't have known. I don't blame you," Jon replied, a small smile on his lips. "We are family, after all. We're allowed to bicker, I reckon."

"I don't want to interrupt, but I'll be needing to head North as soon as possible," Meera interrupted, thinking of the real Bran.

Both Starks turned to her. "No, that's impossible. What with the ice spiders -"

"Why would you ever go back there?"

Groaning, Meera rolled her eyes at them. "It isn't that I want to. Bran told me I need to go back to the Weirwood that the Greenseer was in. That is a long journey, and I understand it will be dangerous, but I really must go."

"Why would you trust anything Bran is telling you?" Sansa exclaimed. "Isn't it clear by now he is not to be trusted?"

"The _Other_ Bran is evil, not your brother. Why would he have warned me about the ravens and the other part of himself if he meant to do us harm?"

"Aye. I don't know what a Warg truly is, or this Greenseer business, but I trust Bran. The real Bran. I'll fetch some men and horses for your journey -"

"No," Meera said, clutching her hands together, "- That is, I'm grateful for your assistance, but I need to go alone. One horse, and supplies, will do. If you please."

"Consider it done," Jon nodded, and turned to Lord Glover. The prude man understood and walked out to fetch the stableboy, muttering curses under his breath.

"If you would excuse me, I have a task to attend to. That is, forcing the stubborn Lords out of their homes," Sansa grinned, and began walking to the main doors. Turning around, she held a soft gaze for Jon. "It was good to see you again."

The curly haired man awkwardly nodded while the Queen was escorted with her guards to her quarters.

"You should prepare ships to Dragonstone," Meera reminded him, and Jon sighed miserably. "It is inevitable."

"And while we're at it, when will you make truth of your birthright?"

The Stark glared at Meera, entirely taken off guard. "What do you mean?"

"Lord Reed knows who you are. He was with Eddard Stark when they found your mother. Although your secret is safe with me, I cannot promise the same from my father. Have you thought about your legitimacy to the throne?"

"I don't want it," he grumbled, in a practiced manner she assumed. "So? You would rather King Bran, who's Other would kill the realms of men given the slightest opportunity?"

"No, of course not. Why does it have to be me? I am a broken man. I've killed every person I have tried to protect."

"By every person, you mean the Dragon Queen."

There was a terrible silence that ensued.

"If you did it to protect Westeros, then you deserve the throne much more than others," she said softly, and then decided to leave the subject as is. "May we meet again."

Looking up at her, Jon smiled. "We will."

* * *

**Khaleesi**

* * *

**Rubbing her hands against the pale water** Dany tried to scrub her hands clean of the blood she knew they have spilled, not stopping even after her skin was raw and bruised. _Mhysa_ they had called her. What was she truly?

Screaming, she tossed the gilded bowl from its place and wrapped her arms around her knees, clattering ringing through the walls. "I need my great bear," Dany whispered, thinking of Sir Jorah and his comforting presence. "I need my dear friend," she breathed, reaching for the tan skin of Missandei she knew wasn't there.

"Daenerys," a voice called from the door. A voice that spoke of greater times, when she liberated those that were enslaved and was surrounded by loyal companions.

"Daario," she shuddered, holding tighter to her ripped dress. "Don't."

The door creaked open and the sound of footsteps echoed in the bare room; she had stripped it of everything she wasn't worthy to own. Settling down beside her, Daario peered cautiously at his Queen. The once strong braids were undone, strands of white falling across her face like a madwoman. Just as before, she had not eaten, nor slept, in so long.

"There are whispers across the sea. They speak of burning castles and mad tyrants," he began, and tears fell down her sweet face. "What happened?"

Breathing heavily, Dany lifted her head. "They speak the truth, Daario. I am a monster."

"No, no," Daario said softly, placing his hand under her chin and making her look into his eyes. "You are filled with grief. The best of us lash out when we are in pain."

"Yes, and it would have made sense had I acted foolishly or stupidly. No, instead I was _ruthless_. I killed them, Daario. I killed men, women, and children! _Children_! They burned under my wrath. Don't you understand?" she cried, scrambling to her feet and throwing her arms in the air.

"I became the Queen of the ashes. My father, the mad King, he would have been proud! All I could think of was my anger, it - it _suffocated_ me. My rage _consumed_ me, until all I could wish was the revenge against my enemies, until all that mattered was their downfall. I accepted any price for that dream, standing on the corpses of innocents if I had to. It did not matter! I am a murderer! _A murderer_!"

A screech roared in the sky, Drogon being overwhelmed by her crushing feelings. "Every King is a murderer, every man that sat on that Iron Throne you coveted so much. Conquerers, Kings, they all kill to sit on their chairs of power. You are no different, Daenerys Targaryen. You are too hard on yourself!"

"What?" she breathed, glaring at Daario in a new light. Of course the leader of the Second Sons would say such a terrible thing. Didn't he understand? She was supposed to be _different_, just as her love had told her on the washed shore of Dragonstone, just as she felt when she rose from the fires unscathed.

"I was meant to be more than just a Queen! It was my destiny to break the wheel -"

"And so you have. Even if through your death, the Lords of Westeros now choose their own rulers. Leave that bloody land alone! Rule here, as you were meant to, as I told you once long ago. You have supporters here, people that are loyal to you," he begged, stepping closer. "People that _love_ you."

"I don't need love," she said, her voice hoarse and cracking. "_He_ loved me, and then he murdered me." Daario was quiet, recognizing to whom she was referring.

"He was right, of course. To be afraid. I would have hurt his family had he given me the chance."

"I don't understand," Daario said slowly, and Dany sighed. "I was trying so hard to get along with the northmen, with Lady Stark, despite her cold treatment of me. If I was given more time, I would have tried harder. For him. It was always for him. But then Rhaegal - then he -

I couldn't think after that. I couldn't eat, I grew weak and bitter. Something happened. Something snapped inside of me and all I could process was my hatred, my need for revenge. It was overwhelming. It was all that mattered. Not even Jon could help me after that."

"What are you saying? You changed?"

"In that moment, yes. Whatever reserves I held to choose mercy, to be righteous, they had disappeared. Isn't that what the common folk say? That Targaryens are like a coin, one side greatness, one side madness? Well, I must have become mad. Maybe I still am mad -" she trailed off, gripping her arms until they bled.

"Do you still feel the anger? Is it still -"

"No. I only have room for sorrow."

"What will you do now?" he asked, unsure of what else to say. It was clear no amount of comforting would console his Queen.

"I will stay away from anyone I can hurt. I will die here, in this room."

"The Red Priestess did not bring you back so that you could die again."

"_Valar Morghulis_."

"But you are not a man. Daenerys, _please_. The people are suffering. Winter is growing stronger, the farmers are starving -"

"What do you mean? Winter should have ended." Realizing something was wrong, Dany rubbed the tears from her cheeks and stared at Daario incredulously.

"Well, it hasn't. Can't you feel it in the air? I hear deadly storms are on their way to Braavos. It will snow in Essos for the very first time."

No, it couldn't be. It was impossible! She had seen the wights ripped apart with her very eyes. The Night King was defeated!

"Who has reported the storms?" Dany demanded, a strength returning to her voice. Daario noticed this immediately and composed himself in front of his Khaleesi. "Fishermen who spotted the clouds from afar. Any ships caught in the violent mists were never seen again."

"Were there reports of corpses? Of men with blue eyes?"

"Well, no, Khaleesi. The commoners would have to have been far enough to witness the storms and survive." This confirmed her suspicions. The Others were coming. How, she did not know. Once she had underestimated the White Walkers, and Viserion died because of it. She would not make the same mistake again.

"Surely this is just a harsh winter?" Daario countered, and Khaleesi dismissed his words. "Whether it is simply nature's doing or the Others, we will be prepared. Tell me, Daario, do you know of the White Walkers?"

Deep into the night, Dany had returned the braids in her hair and placed her sigil on the front of a leather dress dyed the color of her dragon's ebony and blood red colors. Looking in the mirror, her violet eyes peered back at her.

"Whatever you have done, it does not excuse yourself from helping against what is coming."

"Redemption is near," a masked lady appeared behind her reflection, and Dany shook her head. "My crimes are unforgivable. I do not seek redemption, only to serve the good in this world. Whatever that means, so be it."  
"Even without the throne?" Quaithe asked, tilting her slender neck. "Do you give up your birthright?"

Thinking of Jon, Dany turned to face the woman. "What I did to Westeros was one side of my coin. I am unfit to rule, but protect I must. Why else was I brought back?"

"To touch the light," Quaithe answered simply, and then in a blink she was no more.

Back in the throne room, the Council members bowed as Daenerys walked past, hearing of her death and being shocked by its undoing. Slowly, tentatively, she placed her feet on each raised step, rising to the moonlit chair with the grace and beauty of a Dragon Queen. Facing the golden throne, she spun around to the watching audience. There was silence, thick, unwavering silence, as their eyes gazed at the white haired woman who once did not breathe.

"Remove the throne," she commanded, her voice like the rush of a wild river breaking against ancient stones. Nodding diligently, one of the members made haste to find those capable of the task. Still as a statue, Daenerys waited, not ushering a single word, until the stonemasons entered with tools to cut the gold chair from the ground.

There she stood, there she watched, as the thousand year old throne was uprooted from its place in the world and ripped out of the room. "Melt it. Give the profits to the people," she ordered, and they obliged.

Facing the Council she had appointed to rule in her stead when she sailed for Westeros, Daenerys viewed them as the capable members they were. "Do not be afraid. I am Daenerys Targaryen, the First of my Name, the Breaker of Chains, the Mother of Dragons, and now - the Protector of the People. I am not a fool to believe you haven't heard of the atrocities in Westeros. It is true. I have burned King's Landing, and without good cause. Judge me as you see fit, but I have returned from the dead to serve only the people. Once I was _Mhysa_, and I delivered justice for those that could not protect themselves.

I will continue to do exactly that."

The Council members did not react, not at first, but one began to bend to his knees. "No, do not kneel. I am not a Queen! Choose for yourselves whom to rule in your stead, and I will only serve to protect. That is my only role."

"Forgive me, My Grace, but there is no other we have more great than you," one man countered, and several heads nodded. "Then cast your vote with the people. See who it is they choose. Until then, I will leave Meereen to you."

"Of course," they bowed, and watched quietly as she walked back out the way she had come.

"What is the meaning of this?" said Daario just outside the doors, having heard all that took place. "Was I not clear?" Daenerys snipped, and continued to her quarters. "You want a vote? What is this, an election? From the commoners?"

"Welcome the idea, Daario, as it will be the face of the future."

"Where are you going?" the man implored, rushing after the woman as she climbed the stairs as if she were flying. "To Braavos. Surely they will have news of the winter storms, and the Others, if there are any. I will go where I am needed."

"What, and fight these creatures alone? Didn't you say you had many allies and still nearly lost to them in Westeros?"

Stopping suddenly, Dany turned and glared at her once lover. "_Yes_, and if I die then so be it. If it is the White Walkers, someone has to fight them. If not then it is the end of our world, the end of everything we know. I have to warn the cities and if I cannot make it in time for Braavos then I can at least save the people closer to us. We can retreat, back to a place that is fortified and where we can prepare for the oncoming horde."

"What about the Dothraki? The Unsullied?"

"Last I heard the Dothraki are on their way back to the Mother of Mountains. I will find them, and they will join me as they had before. As for the Unsullied -" her heart throbbed at the thought of Grey Worm. "-they will have made it to Naath by now, if what the Council says is true. It will be impossible to bring them back in time."

"And of Illyrio?" They began to walk again.

"The man is a warlock, as were the others in the House of the Undying. Leave him - he is in Volantis with the Red Priestesses. In fact...we could make use of the city. Send a messenger to the city and ask for their help. What I witnessed was a fortress with strong walls when I flew above, and we are in need of such a place. Send the Second Sons and the Council to their walls. Tell them the Night is coming. Tell them Daenerys Targaryen will bring the light."

Reaching the balcony that overlooked Meereen, Dany stopped to look at Daario one more time. "Remember my words," she said, and then the pyramid shook at the weight of Drogon.

"How could I forget?" he breathed, watching as she effortlessly climbed the ebony dragon and soared through the sky, melting into the warmth of the rising dawn.

* * *

**Mentionable Notes:**

The chapter title comes from the sigil of House Reed - it is a lizard-lion, but the whole thing is a mouthful (and feels a bit like HP content again) so I shortened it. Also House Reed is in control of the Crannogmen which are like these little lizard dudes supposedly descended from both Children of the Forest and the First Men. Just like the Starks, they have a tendency of siring Wargs and even Greenseers, which is why Jojen and Meera are so important. And that, my friends, is the tea ; )

I'm going to be introducing another character's viewpoint next chapter. Can you guess who it will be?


	7. A Stone's Curse

**Super sorry** that I took nearly two weeks to publish this chapter. Thing is, I had this little paper with all of the chapters mapped out how I wanted them written and in what order, but then I made the mistake of leaving it in the kitchen and my little niece took it (probably to draw thinking it was scrap). So **there's that**.

I decided to make some changes even though I have a rough idea of the formation. My first change is that this chapter only has one character POV, although it is nearly as long as my usual three sections. Enjoy!

**Thanks again for following and reviewing! As always, let me know what you think in the comments :)**

* * *

**Aegon**

* * *

**The winds were kind** **on the journey** back to Dragonstone - although the turmoil in Jon's mind continued without an end, tormenting him, splicing through the memories of a fair headed maiden with the fierceness of a dragon. No, not a maiden -

_My Queen_.

What a wretched fool he was. The sight of the sloping castle cutting into the horizon made everything feel so real - so close that he could touch her again, hold her again. In this place he could see the way she looked up into the billowing clouds and admire her children with tears in her eyes. It was here he asked her to trust him - and trust him she did. Even when the dagger lodged into her chest, she looked at him in surprise. She had never even considered betrayal. Not from him.

Breathing deeply, in and out, he was overwhelmed with his love for her, overwhelmed by the guilt in what he did. Quickly his hands began to tremble and he gripped the side of the ship until the splinters in the wood made his fingers bleed. The silence of the air, save for the seagulls that cried at a distance, was a reminder of what was missing from above.

The captain told Jon they would need to take smaller vessels to shore and the disturbance effectively pulled him from his thoughts. The taste of the smoke and brimstone reminded Jon of when he sank his boots into the sand and met the watchful eyes of Tyrion. From here he could see the winding path where he once ducked from Drogon, and then laid his sight on her for the first time. Even then he was taken by her beauty, her elegance, the way she so firmly spoke of how she had survived all those years across the sea.

_She didn't survive you_ a voice cruelly reminded him.

Grunting, Jon helped pull the vessel from the waves and onto familiar land. The moment his body made contact with the island, the ground shivered, as if sighing. Had he imagined it?

Shaking his head, Jon turned to his men when the boats were all secure. "Let's mine what we can, and let's do it fast. The North depends on us," he commanded, and they quickly started bringing their equipment to the caves. For the remainder of the day Jon worked tirelessly with the rest of the northmen, ripping dragonglass from deeper within the caves.

Soon it grew too dark to continue and they decided it was best to set camp back on the ship when the cold was creeping into the night. Jon couldn't bear going with them, and instead remained inside the cave where there was some shelter from the winds. Rubbing his hands together over a small fire he started to regret leaving Ghost behind with Sansa. The wolf's thick fur would have kept him plenty warm.

Shuffling back and forth, Jon gave up on trying to sleep and lit a torch from the flames. Hesitantly, he walked farther into the caves, continuing for some time until eventually he stopped in front of a stone etching that surfaced in many of his dreams.

Staring into the darkness beside him, Jon could nearly make out the shape of her sweet face peering at the ancient swirling symbol. In a trance he lifted his hand, reaching, finding nothing to touch.

A choked gasp rose in his throat and he began to panic, realizing she would never return to him. Madness overcame him, and he turned to find her, trying in vain to grip the woman that stole his heart. "Dany!" he yelled, running deeper into the tunnels. "Dany!"

A murmur of a voice sang in the night and he halted to listen to it.

Following the whisper of a sound, Jon raced out of the caves and over the washed shores. _Blood of my blood_ it called, and he tore across the sand to the towering entrance. The moon was red and reflected across the spiraling walls, echoing against the shadows, crying over the land of hateful memories. _Blood of my blood_.

Tumbling through the open gates the man walked across the steps as if in a dream, his heart aching, the spirit inside threatening to rip apart into a thousand bloodied daggers scattered across time, reminding all of what he had done.

The heavens opened and a terrible rain crashed into the world, thunder clattering against the stone gates, shaking the ground under his boots. It would be no surprise if a monstrous chasm opened beneath him, swallowing his flesh to atone for his sins. For their faces were clear in his mind - that of a woman with fiery red hair, a boy with broken innocence, and _her_, always her with the violet eyes.

Taking steps as if in a drunken stupor, Jon pushed through the creaking doors and his gaze trailed across the cold, empty floors, up, up, up to the expanding arches and pale light that shone against an empty throne.

A broken throne, for the stone was now cracked in two, both parts fallen on either side of the stoic platform - as if newly hatched.

Or cursed. Were the old gods watching? Had they waited with bated breath and cried when her eyes closed, shattering everything that her hands had touched? Were they vengeful?

Were they relieved?

Reaching, his hand quivered in the dusty air, the moon coating his skin in a ghostly glow. Wanting her, but finding only the ragged stone, the remains of her reign brushing the tips of his fingers.

Past the broken pieces there was the carving of an eye looking out from the ground. At first Jon thought it was Drogon staring back at him, bitter in every sense of the word. The shape and form were one and the same, as if he had been petrified in time, coming back to this place after his mother -

No, but it couldn't be. It was widely known the ebony dragon had flown in the direction of Essos, maybe even Volantis. It was only natural for a dragon's eye to be carved in the keep of this particular House.

_Blood of my blood_ the voice sang in his thoughts, and he caught sight of a word underneath the oddly placed symbol. _Ōñosmaghare_.

What did that mean? Why was it here? Jon roughly fell to his knees, the tears in his eyes already spent, and felt the word with his calloused hands.

_Blood of my blood!_ the voice called again, this time much louder, as if trying to crack the inner recesses of his mind. _Blood of my blood!_ it screamed, and he cried at the invasive sound pressing against his head. Launching his palms on his ears, Jon tried to keep the voice out but it kept echoing and echoing, slamming into his front until it was all he could think.

**_Blood of my blood!_**

**_Blood of my blood!_**

**_Blood of my blood!_**

Banging his head onto the word, Jon fell deeply into madness, crying, begging for it to stop. Eventually he scraped the space between his brow and a wave of red spilled against the carvings, all across the letters until they were seeping in the color. Jon tried in vain to cover the wound, but on it poured, until the eye was drenched in a river of blood.

Then the keep began to shake.

Hot, moist air ripped across the hall and the walls began to crumble as curved structures moved on their own accord. Huge chunks of the arches littered the ground and Jon was rocked out of balance, falling onto his back and watching in horror as the winged shape of the ceiling started to pulse in and out, as if stretching - tearing the castle in the process.

The eye that glowered before him began to quiver and then it blinked, the color of amber peering back. Again, Dragonstone burst into long quakes as the eye watched, and Jon stayed very still as the rest of its stone face turned from the structure it once supported. As the back of the throne room crumpled into the sea, the neck of the dragon came loose and it faced him from above, leaning down to glare at him - into his very core.

Breathing heavily in disbelief the wolven man wiped the blood from his brow and tried to process what had just happened. Dragonstone was no more. Most of it had fallen into the very waters Rhaegar still rests - and before him laid _a dragon_.

As if to prove everything had truly come to pass the creature extended its fearsome silver wings against the blanket of stars and leaned back, screeching a booming roar into the night. Massive angular horns protruded from above its amber eyes, curving away from its sharp face. This dragon seemed older than her three children were, bigger even, boasting more grace than Drogon.

A familiar hum in Jon's mind reminded him of his connection with Ghost - of how he knew where the direwolf was even when out of sight. This warm tension was different, foreign, wrapping around Jon's thoughts until it brushed along his inner self. Curious.

The silver dragon was curious of the man before him.

How did he know this? Could he - was he _hearing _ the dragon's thoughts? Again, the winged stranger feathered against his mind and gave a curt screech at the fear in Jon's chest. Was it disappointed in finding that he was afraid?

"A-aye, you're a dragon," Jon stammered, and then realized he had just spoken out loud. The amber eyes suddenly grew much closer and glared at him as if enraged at this response.

_Think, Jon. These creatures are not dumb beasts, didn't she teach you as much?_ Swallowing the impulse to pull out his sword, Jon instead rose one hand in the air, as if in truce despite what he had said. "I'm sorry, I was, well, I wasn't expecting this," he breathed, sitting up and continuing to offer his hand.

The silver dragon blinked at the flesh before it and then leaned closer, brushing its mind against his once more. Finding the fear gone, it slowly lowered its head to touch his outstretched fingers. The cool reflective scales of its snout grazed his skin and Jon could feel the tether between them grow stronger, as if an invisible cord had tightened in one slick of movement.

Suddenly, he could _feel_ the dragon. The heart in its ribs was very much real, as well as the taunt, trained muscles in its limbs. How? How is this real?

A vision flashed across Jon's mind - the sight of several dragons screeching fearsomely in the air, sighting land from afar. Then he could see the talons of the silver dragon before him and knew that it was there too, reaching the island that he recognized as Dragonstone before the castle had been built. Looking behind, the dragon could see the battleships of Valyria landing on the shore. There were ragged men with spears running from the trees and attempting to ambush the invaders.

Roaring, the silver dragon spewed down fire to the oncoming horde.

Suddenly, they were no longer in the day but gathered together below the moonlight. Valyrians dressed in emerald cloaks were surrounding the massive dragon, raising their hands and singing in a language Jon could not understand. It was snowing. A dark haired man stared back at it from the darkness, refusing to sing too. Looking closer, Jon realized he was crying.

The rocky slopes began to rise around and shape into walls, doorways, expanding arches. As if being one with the creature, Jon looked down and watched as his limbs began to turn dull and gray, rather like -

Fluttering his eyes open, Jon understood what they did to the dragon. "They petrified you. For this - for the castle," he said between shaking breaths. Rising to his feet, he nearly lost balance again and leaned against the broken throne. Looking around, he took in just how demolished the castle was. From afar, he could see the northmen rowing inland from the main vessel.

The dragon turned and let out a deep rumble at the sight of the approaching men. "No, they're not enemies," Jon explained, and then to his surprise watched the dragon turn back to him in acceptance of his words.

"What - what is your name?" he asked, but the silver dragon only blinked. Thinking of the platform that was under its eye, he remembered the word written in the stone. "Ōñosmaghare?"

The creature let out powdered smoke in acknowledgement of its name. Giving a weak smile, Jon cocked his injured head. "What a name," he frowned, thinking of any way to shorten it.

Looking back up at the creature, he offered an alternative. "Is Onos alright? The rest of it is too long, I reckon, to say all the time."

Snorting, the dragon felt rather strong disagreement. "Aye, you have to admit," he continued, and the silver beast screeched its reluctant acceptance. Bellowing, the creature snaked its way to where Jon stood and lowered one scaled shoulder, its intent as clear as the moon above them.

"Why me? Why now?" Jon asked, but the dragon only roared in impatience. Scrambling across the littered remains of the hall, he reached the creature and launched his nervous hands on the silver scales. Feeling rather like it was the first ride with Rhaegar, Jon sunk his boot in the right places this time and took significantly longer to settle in between the two stretched wings. Onos was larger, after all.

Still not deciding if this was a dream, Jon held onto the spikes that he used not long ago and felt the tether sink deeper between the two. It was as if the smoldering body beneath him was an extension of himself. There was no separation between what was Onos and what was Jon. In that moment, they were one.

Feeling the familiar excitement of the seconds before flying, memories of Rhaegar flashed in their shared thoughts and Onos growled menacingly. Deciding it was important to prove itself more competent than Jon's previous experience, the silver dragon gave itself a considerably amount of space to kick from the ground.

And kick it did. The creature soared into the sky with one graceful leap and pounded its long wings with tremendous force, clearing past the island in the span of Jon's exhaled breath. The wind danced through his hair, across his skin, and he looked down to see the stretch of a fading land on the horizon of a glimmering sea. Thousands upon thousands of stars flickered from this height. There was no longer the smell of brimstone, but only the salt of the ocean and the cold of winter that greeted his shuddering lungs.

Questions swirled in his mind, mysteries with answers he wasn't entirely certain he could make sense of. But in this moment he was incredibly, maddeningly happy. It was the first time since the last sight of her heated eyes that Jon had felt this way. No, it wasn't the same kind of joy, but it was strong and steady.

"Onos!" Jon cried, feeling overwhelmed with their flight amongst the heavens. The dragon gave a powerful screech, and then another, having felt the stillness of its limbs for too long. It suddenly occurred to Jon that Onos was enjoying this in the same way. This was a feeling lost to them both, and returned through each other.

Resting back on the silver dragon Jon only watched as Onos flew above the clouds for some time and then dipped below to graze the blackened waters. The words that had whispered in his head suddenly made sense. _Blood of my blood_.

As he gazed at the stars Jon accepted the words for what they meant. _You are Aegon Targaryen_. There were still doubts, even after riding Rhaegar. Onos screeched in protest at the mention of the other dragon and Jon placed his hand on its scales to reassure his friend. Now those doubts were settled.

_I am a dragon _he thought, and then turned to look down at the waters.

Thinking of Ghost, Jon's thoughts veered North and he remembered the ice spiders that were pouring through the gates as they flew without a care across the sea. Jolting up, he knew the northmen left on Dragonstone would think the worst of what happened.

"We have to go back. I need to let the others know," he explained, or finished, for he had only voiced the very end of his explanation. Without realizing it, Jon had said most of his words through their tether.

The dragon gave a small screech, as if in the form of a question. Why?

"The White Walkers, do you know them?" Jon allowed his mind to think of Hardhome when the Night King rose the newly fallen to join his army and they peered with frosted eyes at his receding vessel. Then he pulled the memory of Viserion falling from the sky with the toss of an ice spear, along with the sight of his corpse shooting icy flames in the darkened courtyard of Winterfell.

There was a roar that pierced the winds - a voice of recognition from the silver dragon.

"Aye, I'm glad you do. They're back, you see. And stronger than before. I don't know why you came out of that castle, and I don't reckon you know how to tell me. But I need to know if you will fight with me."

A jolt of fierce agreement rang across the tether, the image of the two circled in a ring of golden color appearing in his mind. Jon understood what the silver dragon meant. The bond was final. Whatever Jon decided, Onos would be there too.

Screeching, Onos swooped across the sky and towards Dragonstone once more. Finding the shore covered with scrambling men, Jon eyed the area before the crashed gates and Onos landed there quickly, rustling its wings.

Slowly the silver dragon sank its shoulder to the ground and lowered Jon to his feet. Facing Onos, he pleaded a silent question of tolerance. The dragon was a sight to behold - its body towered so high it made Jon look like a speck beside it. The northmen were smart to stay far behind and would not approach while the dragon stirred so close.

Giving a screech of annoyance, Onos stayed where it was. Jon knew he would have to be quick about it - he could feel the dragon's hunger across the tether.

Once close enough, the northmen voiced their angry concerns. "Wha' is tis? Ye stole 'er dragon?" one man cried, and another shook his fist in the air. "Not a Stark, fer sure! A Targaryen!"

"Was right not te trust 'im!"

"Did ye bring us 'ere just fer this?"

One bellowed screech from Onos quieted the men and they were horrified at the sight of the creature. How would he explain this?  
"Now, I know this is strange. I didn't plan this, I don't even know what really happened here. I reckon it's magic, and I can't tell you why. Right now, that's not important. We know what's coming, and it's going to hit us harder than before - harder than when we had two dragons and more allies. Once I was your King, once you put your trust in me.

I'm asking you to keep that trust. The Queen needs to know what happened here, she needs to know we have Onos. Mine as much of the dragonglass as you can. Mine as if your life depends on it, because it does.

I will return to you."

Larence Hornwood separated himself from the crowd and peered suspiciously at Jon. "Wha if yer gonna use that there dragon to harm the Queen! Reckon yer not even a Stark!"

Keeping his feet planted, Jon stared at the boy square in the eyes, the authority in his stance speaking volumes to the northmen. "Sansa is my family. Why do you think I came all this way if not for her? Why do you think I fought the Boltons, or went back to the Wall when she said to?"

Feeling embarrassed, the boy gave a shy apology and backed away to give the former King space. Turning his attention to the rest of the men, Jon held his head up high. "Remember what I said," was all he spoke, and then spun around towards the watching Onos.

Staring at the dragon this close, at the sleek limbs and luminescent scales, it was still very hard to believe Onos had come from the structure of the castle. It must have been a very long time waiting to be released from the curse the Valyrians placed on it.

Onos turned its slender neck in a feminine way, and it was then Jon wondered what sex it was. Dany always mentioned Drogon as being a him and the build of that ebony dragon proclaimed as much. Although excessively large, it seemed Onos was bigger because it was older than Drogon. What was it Sam used to ramble about? Wasn't it that dragons could live well past the age of their rider? How old was Onos?

Placing his hand on the tip of its right horn, Jon admired the color that shone pleasantly against the lowering moon. _Beautiful_ Jon thought, and Onos purred in agreement. Climbing smoothly onto its back Jon thoughts kept circling back to Drogon. Where was the ebony beast now?  
The face of Dany's dragon was shared between the pair and Onos snapped its mouth as if scoffing. Suddenly taking off, the silver creature flew high above the clouds and in the direction of - Essos?

"Where are you going?" Jon yelled, although his voice was hushed by the strong winds. No amount of yanking or prying would get the dragon to respond. Screeching, Onos made it clear its intentions were to find - and challenge - the ebony stranger.

"What? No! Leave the beast be! Let it mourn!" Jon shouted, banging his fists on the dragon's scaly neck. Onos roared and spun in the air, making Jon clutch the spikes in an effort to not fall off.

_Stop it!_ He began to yell in their minds and the winged creature steadied - albeit upside down.

Feeling his body sliding towards the blanket of clouds Jon held his breath gripping the spikes. "Onos!"

Suddenly, Jon was in the air plummeting through the white vapor and towards the depths of the waters below. It felt as if his heart would rip out of his chest and he tried in vain to hold onto something, anything, that would stop his coming death.

How stupid he was! To trust in another dragon!

Hearing another screech, Jon watched as the surface of the ocean grew closer and thought of Dany's face as it lit up with her smile.

Smacking into the scales of Onos, the breath in Jon's lungs were knocked clean out of him and he heaved as he tried to make sense of what happened. Quickly Jon grabbed the spikes again and settled himself before the dragon whisked over the clouds again.

This time the silver dragon flew without any direction in mind. "What was that about?" Jon exclaimed, and then let out a slew of curses. Crawling up the slim of its neck, Jon looked directly in the amber eye of his dragon. "Are you trying to kill me?"

In seconds the dragon dipped below the clouds and sank into the ocean, leaving Jon tossing and turning in the cold waves. Reaching the surface of the water he gasped as he greeted the air and glared at the silver dragon who was chasing after schools of fish. "Onos!"

After yelling for some time and realizing the bloody dragon was ignoring him, Jon settled with floating in the water and looking up at the disappearing stars. Onos was making the water around him warmer with the temperature of its body and the heat of its flame when it was roasting the meat it had caught.

Jon's thoughts traveled to Sansa and the ice spiders again. Would they really have a chance now? As if in response, the dragon rose from under Jon and lifted them both in the sky - towards Winterfell.

Onos blinked, and then gazed at the molten sun that was rising from the horizon. There was no apology, only the trance of a different time. Reaching, Jon placed his hand at the top of its head.

A vision of a sky full of dragons surfaced in their shared mind. There were creatures of varying shapes and colors, some emerald or sapphire, others dull creams and greys. Onos spun its attention to a pretty golden beast that made it feel like a hatchling in size - for it was larger than the rest.

Then Jon lifted his hand and felt a wave of sadness from Onos. Laying on the creature's back, Jon ran his fingers over its silver scales. "You two are the last ones. There were more, siblings, a green one called Viserion, and then the cream one was Rhaegar."

As Jon gave the story of the three dragons and their mother, Onos listened in peaceful silence. "There was a woman, a Targaryen, with hair the color of snow and violet eyes. She was the last true dragon. Across the Narrow Sea she was given three petrified dragon eggs and dreamed they would hatch in a fire. Climbing a pyre, everything burned away except her, and the three children were born -"

With his hands in the wind, Jon explained the journey of his lover, detailing how the two smaller ones were calm and peaceful, and Drogon was the fiercest of the three. Jon spoke of how Dany would climb the ebony dragon and they sailed as one, and how they had defeated many enemies during their battles.

Sensitive to grief, Jon became quiet and let the air rustle his stretched hand. "She was everything," he whispered, and Onos let out a soft screech. Running his fingers over glistening scales, Jon gazed at the promise of a rising sun.

* * *

**Mentionable Notes:**

If you thought I'd tell you what Ōñosmaghare meant in this area, **guess again**! Either keep reading as it will be explained soon or just google it. The word is *dun dun* Valyrian and pretty important to the story. Do you like Onos? I think it's a cute dragon name.

Oh, it's also pronounced oh - no - s

Or ' Oh no! Ssss'

Did that confused you? Me too. I'm glad we're all confused.


	8. A Queen's Trust

**Super sorry **about my hiatus! It's been some trying months and I am really close to publishing my book so this fanfiction was put on the back burner for a while. Please expect updates **every other** **week **from now on. I had this character POV ready since way back when but never posted so here it is! The following chapter will have multiple perspectives just as before.

I also realized my responses to reviews aren't shown as comments for all to see, so from now on I will respond **here** if it is directly in response to the story or about corrections on my end.

When developing Onos, I had used a Valyrian translating site to create Ōñosmaghare. There was a mention about the translation of the name, and technically it's a rough translation of the words broken down. Please allow for some leeway in this regard : )

* * *

Sansa

* * *

**Standing under the canopy of Weirwood **and watching the red leaves sway in the breeze did very little to the troubles in her heart. Sansa reached out and touched one of the branches, willing the gods to respond as her mother believed they did. The sound of the wind was their only reply.

Sighing, she let her hand fall to her side.

"A handful of the messengers have returned, Your Grace," Lady Berena stood shyly at the edge of the clearing. Turning to her ally, Sansa noted the shade of fear in her eyes. "What did the good Lords of the North respond to my decree?"

Gingerly, Lady Berena took a small step forward. "Some - some are doubtful, Your Grace. They do not see why they should retr-"

Sighing again, Sansa held her chain and twisted it in her hands. "Did I not make it clear it was a _command_, Lady Berena?"

Breathing hoarsely, the usually stubborn woman grew a few shades paler. "Yes, Your Grace. But with the northmen divided in their support for the former King they are reluctant in leaving their lands when traitors are so close. Had the bastard -"  
"I already hear enough disrespect towards the Stark name, do take care that I not hear it from you," Sansa interrupted, her eyes shining with a heavy warning. Bowing in apology, the woman secretly promised to let the servant boy deliver any future news.

Realizing she was letting her temper get the best of her, Sansa stepped closer to the woman. "Forgive me, these are trying times. Please finish what you have begun."

"I meant no harm, Your Grace. It is only in your best interest that I speak. If only your brother had bent the knee, _publicly_, as we had planned, then the northmen would have been more...eager, to listen."

Sansa nodded, acknowledging her mistake on letting Jon leave immediately. She could only think of the corpses rising up in the crypt and running after her with rotting limbs. One thought of that night and she could smell the decaying flesh again, reaching for her with the bluest of eyes.

Blinking, the Queen struggled to compose herself. "It is unfortunate Jon had to travel to Dragonstone so quickly."

"Forgive me for continuing, Your Grace, but the Lords are also conflicted in believing that King's Landing will send no aid. Had the King not been a Stark -"

"The South will be of no help to us. My brother is not the man that sits on that throne."

"I understand, as we do here in Winterfell, Your Grace, but the other Lords -"

"Will need to be convinced. I have spent many hours trying to think of a way to prove Bran's involvement, separate from a lone Reed girl who is no longer with us. Had Jon spoken to them - it might have swayed the northmen.

But even then, I wouldn't know if that was enough."

The sound of crunching snow interrupted the brooding women and Lord Glover's face emerged from the shadows. "I came as soon as I heard their response, Your Grace."

"Conflicting views, I am afraid. I hadn't expected the northmen to abandon their Houses at the mention of a threat."

"Jon's wildling friend, the one with the red hair and blue eyes -"

"Tormund?" Sansa offered, a whisper of a smile on her lips.

"Aye, that one. He stayed close to the Wall to check on the ice spiders and says they have slowed down."

"Slowed down?"

"He reckons they're waiting for something." Lord Glover kept a hand on the hilt of his blade, as if the very mention of the monsters would have them appear in the Godswood.

Thinking of Meera's words, Sansa pondered on what it could mean. Why would the White Walkers hold back when they were at their most vulnerable? Even if Jon made it back in time they would have less fighters than before, and lacking any dragons to slow down the hordes.

"Whatever the reason may be, stay on guard for the worst to come. As for the northmen, send the messengers back. Tell the Lords that this is a Call - the Stark House is not asking for their help, but calling their banners.

I will personally see to it that they come."

Both Lord Glover and Lady Berena stared incredulously at their Queen. "You will ride to them?"

"I will. If the Houses do not come, they will only strengthen the army of the dead. We cannot let that happen."

"But Your Grace -"

"It is too dangerous -"

Sansa raised her hand to silence their protests. "Please excuse me as I take care of my affairs before dawn. We will ride in the morn."

"There are Lords that reside closer to the Wall," Lord Glover breathed after she had turned. Looking back, Sansa met his beady eyes. "Then we must make haste."

Back in the safety of her quarters, the confident stance of a Queen was shaken off and Sansa gazed out the window in doubt. Thinking of her sister, she longed for the comfort of Arya's shadow lurking in the halls. That dark haired girl was frightening, but only to those that didn't share the Stark name.

A face slipped into her mind - that of a dwarf with a vicious scar across his nose. Why was she remembering that Lannister? Even when the lions held King's Landing in their cold grip Tyrion had been kind to her. Then in the night of the crypt…

It occurred to her that the man's days were numbered, considering his proximity to the Other Bran.

"What a fool you were. You chose Bran the Broken, when you know in your heart that it should have been Jon."

As soon as the confession escaped her lips, Sansa glanced at her closed door and sighed. If anyone had heard there would be trouble stirring in Winterfell.

After sealing the letters with her sigil, Sansa decided she had done enough for the day. Signaling her maid with a bell, the young girl carefully removed her clothes and pulled a thin shift over the scars that had remained from a twisted man whom she could never forget.

Resting her head against the furs, her eyes trailed the rich embers in the fireplace and traveled to the torches hung from above. This was where her mother laid, praying to the old gods for her husband to come back from the South.

Sansa's eyelids fluttered as she turned to her side to face the shadows.

There was a burst of frantic shouts in the keep that lifted her from her slumber and she gripped the sides of the bed to steady her beating heart. Outside there were violent screams and Sansa slipped onto her feet to run to the window. Chaos ensued in the courtyard - men and women were running about like frightened children and soldiers made their way in haste to the towers.

Why the towers?

The young maid knocked loudly at the door and sprung inside, her eyes wide. "Dragon!" she cried, and Sansa spun towards her stashed chest. Jumping to her knees, the girl helped push it open and grabbed attire meant for such a moment.

A warning screech from far away made her mind reel in the destruction Drogon was capable of. Was the dragon avenging his mother?

Where were the scorpions when _she_ needed them?

Threading the armor on with quick fingers, the girl then secured Sansa's hair in a tight braid. "Stay here!" Sansa commanded, and then ran through the door to be accompanied by a circle of guards.

Sprinting through the main hall, Lord Glover reached her side and implored her to hide in the crypt. "It is not safe! The dragon is nearly here!"

Waving him away, Sansa kept a brave face and walked through the entrance to eye the open sky. Sure enough, there was a dragon flying from the direction of the sea.

Ignoring the men who were yelling into her ear Sansa realized the color of the dragon was wrong. Wasn't Drogon as dark as the night?

This beast - it was shining! The reflection of the sun was gleaming off its scales.

Turning to the northmen Sansa barked orders for the women and children to wait in the crypt. "Secure the gates! Archers to the walls! Ready yourselves!" she screamed, finding the courage she once lacked.

"Your Grace, you need to go to the crypt as well -"  
"Queens do not cower, Lord Glover. If we are to be slaughtered, then at the very least we do so looking death in the eye," she said, her voice reminding all of her brave mother. Looking as if he would protest, Lord Glover swallowed his words and pulled a sturdy bow from a guard's post.

"Remember our lessons," he said, and she clasped the weapon in her hands. "Aim true."

Nodding, Sansa made her way up the stairs of one of the towers and nocked an arrow into place. Standing beside her men she took a good look at the incoming dragon, now close enough to realize it was larger than the two she had seen before, and rested the string next to her quivering lips.

Watching the silver dragon grow closer made her fingers sweat and her brow scrunch up. If the creature wasn't a threat to her home, Sansa would have thought it a beautiful creation. While Drogon was menacing and coated in ebony scales, this dragon was so light it could have been mistaken for the snow that was gently falling from the sky.

Sooner than she was ready, the dragon screeched again and began to circle around the plain facing the entrance of Winterfell. What was it doing?

Squinting at the winged beast, she realized there was a speck of black in between its shoulders. Another dragon rider? No - it couldn't be -

Suddenly the creature dove to the ground and landed with a thud so powerful it rocked the wall under her. Eyeing the black speck, Sansa confirmed it was a person when it - no, _he_, slipped to the ground.

The giant dragon was screeching quite threateningly, snapping its mouth towards the keep, and it looked like the man was throwing his hands in the air to argue with it. Then the dragon snaked towards the gates and the man began to yell at the creature, pointing away from the keep.

Several of the men raised their bows and the dragon started lashing its tail out fiercely. _Oh_.

"Stand back! Sheath your weapons!" Sansa yelled, and the soldiers looked at her incredulously but did not dare contradict their Queen. As soon as the bows were lowered the dragon seemed to calm down and gave another screech towards the man.

Only it wasn't just any man.

Racing down the stairs, Sansa had the guards scurrying to follow her towards the closed entrance. "Raise the gates!"

Lord Glover appeared from another stairway and ran to stop his Queen but she had already made it through the open space and into the snowy fields. Hitching her skirts, she prayed this wasn't a mistake and launched herself towards the dragon.

Realizing the strange woman was approaching its rider, the silver creature began to hiss warningly and stretched out its massive wings.

Jon turned to it and placed a hand on its scales, whispering words of comfort.

It seemed the dragon didn't trust him as much as he thought, and in denial it curled a spiked tail around him.

"Jon!" Sansa cried, and he climbed over the tail to run to his sister. "Jon!"

The silver dragon snaked its neck over the man and faced Sansa, its amber eyes gleaming. There was a steady puff of smoke leaking from its mouth and into the air above. Suddenly, rows of its daggered teeth were shining in display and a heated glow pulsed from the back of its throat.


	9. A Storm's Descent

Longer wait for a longer chapter. As promised, more character viewpoints!

It was such a pleasure writing these scenes. One thing we miss a lot in the show are the private thoughts of our favorite characters, and you can't really get that outside of reading.

**Thanks again for following and adding to your favorites! Please let me know what you think in the comments, I'd love to hear your thoughts!**

* * *

**Meera**

* * *

**There was a fierce wind **that threatened to drag a cluster of storm clouds directly where Meera laid, tucked deeply within soft hide. She peered from her perch and let out a stifled breath. The bone chilling cold was seeping through layers of furs - her lips were a tinge of blue.

_Why here? _She thought, feeling bitter about Bran. Whether it was his unwelcome visit in her dreams or his departure from them, she did not know what bothered her more.

The surly horse the Queen had given her was not strong enough for the task. She prayed the animal would pull through until they passed the Wall. She did not know if she was capable of journeying on foot a second time.

Shuddering, Meera shrank farther into her furs and tried to ignore the air that nipped her face.

Opening her eyes the girl realized she stood above water again, a crimson rose blooming beneath the pool's surface. Her heart faltered when she didn't find a familiar empty face staring back.

"Bran?" she called, listening as her voice echoed against the waters. Small ripples broke the once calm ocean and a storm brewed in the sky.

Suddenly, Meera was rocking in a ship that was being tossed back and forth. It took considerable effort not to lose her balance as she placed her hands on the wall for support. "Bran!" she yelled again, but only the screaming wind answered.

_You aren't going to die, you aren't going to die_. A voice whispered in Meera's ear and she followed the sound into a tight cabin. Underneath a rocking cot laid a pair of feet sticking out and she sank to her knees to look. There was a wreath of white flowers where a body should have laid.

Then she was in King's Landing gazing at the melted throne and crumpled walls, watching as snow poured from the heavens. A branch sprouted from the remains of the chair and it spread until a Weirwood tree grew so large its red leaves touched the arched ceiling.

Meera waited, expecting the vision to change, but the dream seemed frozen in place.

"These visions confuse you," Bran spoke from behind. Instead of turning, she simply watched as the leaves fell one by one until the tree was sickly and cracking.

"Is this a glimpse of the future?" she asked, grabbing a fallen leaf and turning it in her hand. Slowly it caught on fire, as did the rest, and the tree burned until it littered the ground with ash.

"Perhaps," was his reply. Facing Bran, Meera noted his shadow was still. It had also grown larger since the last time they spoke. She secretly enjoyed the tinge of gold in his gleaming irises.

"The Other Bran?" she said nervously, half expecting his shadow to attack as it had before. Bran sighed and his head lowered as if he were sleeping. Then he took a step closer and gazed intently at her.

"Elsewhere."

"Where is that?"

Meera absentmindedly leaned towards the scent of his breath, inhaling the hints of forest and smoke that always emitted from him.

"There is a rumor. He is seeking it."

"What rumor?"

"A winged one."

Puzzled, Meera wanted to keep pummeling questions but knew Bran would never answer them. "Why hide your secrets? Aren't you the real Bran?"

A glimpse of sadness flashed in his face before he sank back into a passive stance. "Moments change people. The Bran you knew was someone else, as was the Bran before he fell out of that tower. I am my today, but tomorrow has yet to come."

Meera crinkled her nose and leaned away. "Certain things never change. Some parts of you did, but others remain."

A knowing look filtered in his gaze and he suddenly seemed more vulnerable than before. Raising his hand, tentatively, hesitantly, he touched one lock of her deep brown hair.

"So it seems."

The ravens began to churn and caw. Bran jerked away as if in pain and wrapped his slender arms around his stomach, gasping.

"He's back?" Meera breathed, and then screamed when he lunged for her. Grasping her tightly by the shoulders, Bran spun her around to look at the burnt weirwood tree.

"I revealed too much," he choked, locking her face in his hands and making Meera glare at the throne. The sound of the ravens was a hurricane of noise, crowing mercilessly, ready to tear her apart.

Then the vision grew dark and only his voice remained in her head.

"He is scared of you."

Jolting out of the blankets Meera felt the rigid snow from the ground on her skin and flinched. She hurriedly brushed it off her exposed hands and settled the furs back in place. Peering at the sky she took in the first light of day.

Thinking of the burnt Weirwood tree Meera was puzzled by what it implied. Why did he say he revealed too much? What was Bran trying to show her? Why is the Other Bran afraid?

Why did he touch her hair?

She shivered. When they traveled together with Jojen, Meera couldn't help but notice the way he looked at her then. She couldn't help but hear the desperation in Bran's voice when he begged the deserters at Craster's Keep to leave her alone.

_So it seems._

Deciding she had rested enough, Meera rose to her feet and tucked the furs back into their pack. Placing them on the sleeping horse she felt a brush of annoyance in her mind that wasn't hers.

Blinking, Meera stared at the animal. Did she -

No, she couldn't have -

Placing a hand on the mare's coat, she ran her glove across it and felt a warm approval greet her thoughts. It was as if her mind were a band that had stretched and overlapped with the horse. She focused on the feeling and pushed on the edges of the boundary until she could feel the muscles in those powerful legs. They were aching from traveling at such a haste.

"I'm sorry for pushing you so hard," she whispered, moving her hand back and forth on the mare's back.

There was an abrupt caw in the air and Meera snapped to the sky, searching for the telltale black speck. Sure enough, a raven flittered near the gaping Rift of what used to be an impenetrable Wall.

Grabbing the reins of her horse Meera pulled them farther into the protection of the frost bitten canopies. If Bran could enter her dreams what stopped him from knowing where she was when awake?

Walking back and forth Meera weighed her options, contemplating which route to take. If she entered through the crack then Other Bran would be quick to respond. He could send the undead, or even worse, the ice spiders to hunt her down.

Why had she gone this way? It had taken considerably longer time to travel in this direction than to enter through the tunnels.

_You know why_ a voice reminded her, knowing what the real Bran knew could be used against her. Going through there again is what the Other would expect.

No, she had to choose a different approach.

Pausing to sway where she stood Meera battled against the feeling of defeat. There was no other entrance - they would all be guarded. How could she travel to the Weirwood tree? It was imposs -

A scratching noise sounded from her right and Meera turned to it. At the base of the nearest tree a white fox was digging on the bark and staring intently at her. Once its eyes locked with hers the fox trotted to her feet and pulled at the tip of her ripped pants.

The girl shook herself away and stared at the creature as it refused to move from its place. There was a gaze in the depths of its irises that reminded her of the face she had just dreamed of. It occurred to Meera this was no ordinary animal.

"Bran?" she whispered, and the white fox bristled its tail. Tugging at her clothes once more, the creature made a soft bark before prancing deeper into the forest. Struggling to decide, Meera waited a moment before grabbing the reins of the mare and following along.

For a little over an hour the pair kept a mutual routine - the white fox would stop every few minutes to check if Meera was close and she would scramble to catch her breath. Such a little thing was traveling rather quickly, ducking under shadows as much as it could. It took a considerable amount of effort for Meera to ignore the part of her that screamed this was a trap. How could she know for certain the Other wasn't behind this?

_Stop worrying_ she scolded herself, thinking of the raven that flitted above the Rift. The Other would not have gone through so much trouble to capture her.

The white fox stopped suddenly and pranced in a circle before darting under the roots of a rather weathered tree. "Wait!" Meera yelled, launching her hands on the mangled wood but finding no fur as she wiggled her fingers inside.

A sharp bark echoed from the covered hole. Groaning, Meera sat down and ran a hand through her knotted curls. She cursed loudly, leaning onto her back and looking up at the mare that was watching her. There was a hint of mischief in her eyes, as if watching her struggle was amusing to the horse.

A tug on her foot made the girl jump and she looked over at the white fox biting her boot. Once its eyes locked with hers the fox made another small bark before tucking inside the roots again.

"Bran, this better have a good reason," Meera breathed while taking out her dagger and hacking at the wood. Underneath there was a rather large tunnel that seemed big enough to fit her small frame.

Getting onto her feet Meera made her way to the mare and placed her hand on its soft nose. "You can leave now," she explained, unbuckling the saddle. The horse gave her a skeptical look and neighed quite dramatically. Extending the feel of her bond Meera thought of open fields and wild grass farther south. "You will be okay there."

The mare snorted before tearing off into the woods. She watched until she could no longer hear the sound of trotting. Bending to her knees, Meera tucked her arms into the tunnel and made a small prayer before pulling herself inside.

What she wasn't expecting was to slide into a cave.

Her body hit the stone ground hard and she heaved for breath from the impact. Rising to her feet, Meera coughed and tried to squint to see what was there. The echo of a bark vibrated around and she tried to follow the direction of the fox blindly. Keeping her hands in front of her Meera took step after cautious step before reaching a wall.

"Bran!" she called, her patience running thin. There was the feeling of a barrier pressing against her mind and Meera shuddered when it merged into her.

_You can't see_ Bran spoke in her head and Meera gasped at the sound of his voice.

_How are you speaking with me?_

It was as if Meera could hear his sigh at her question.

_Think of light, and it will be_..

Then the band yanked away from her thoughts and she was alone. Why did he always have to talk in riddles?

Meera sighed and tried to envision the image of a fire roasting in front of her. She imagined the warmth of the embers sparking against the darkness and light bouncing against the stone ceiling. There was a tingling sensation in her hand and she wiggled her fingertips, feeling heat growing in her skin. The weight of pressure built up inside her chest and Meera felt a sudden longing for its release.

A spark shimmered for a second before fading above her palm and she gasped. It was a tireless and impatient kind of energy, as if her legs had been sitting for too long and yearned to run in the fields.

Taking a deep breath Meera thought of the fire again and another spark shone from nothingness. Then a hint of light grew until it was a steady flame above her hand.

_Impossible_. Meera stared at the magic in disbelief. She had done that! Jojen had always been the one with the dreams, but here she was, conjuring fire from thin air. What would papa thi -

A vicious clicking noise sounded from above and the cave began to rattle from the weight of many legs stomping on the surface. Ice spiders! But how? Did Bran tell the Other?

Did he betray her?

Meera's eyes grew watery as she lunged through the now lit cave trying to find another exit. Scrambling through roots and dirt, moss and stone, she tore across the tunnel and prayed the ice spiders wouldn't find the entrance.

The sound of branches ripping in half made her heart drop and it took every ounce of her effort not to look back. Their fangs were pinching so loudly they echoed through the cave and she felt the hair on her arms rising.

Reaching a fork in the tunnel Meera didn't know which one to pursue. There was a faint bark that rose from the left flank and she bolted through it.

Meera nearly realized too late that in front of her was the end of the path as a gaping hole emerged.

"Bran!' Meera yelled, her voice resonating down below. The clicking of the spiders grew louder and the girl turned around to watch in horror as they appeared before her. They were crude beasts with rotting flesh and eyes as blue as the winter sky.

The closest of the monsters stopped, watching her in all eight of its pupils. Meera took a step back and felt the edge of the hole with her foot. There was nowhere else to go. It was either death by gruesome spider attack or falling through the endless chasm. The small flame in her hand was threatening to give out and plunge her into complete darkness.

A bark sounded from below and Meera glanced at the hole. "I trust you," she whispered, and then turned her heel to jump into the void.

* * *

**Dany**

* * *

**Two gentle, little hands** reached for the crimson red door that was lit up by the warmth of the sun. Delicate fingers stroked the wood, taking in the swirls beneath the paint. Violet eyes peered from a mane of white hair. She breathed the smell of peasants and fresh bread, wild dogs and the salt of the sea - breathed before exhaling deeply into the world.

The door creaked as it opened, sucking away the light until there was only a vast darkness that greeted her. _I told you not to wake the dragon_ a voice hissed. Two amber eyes peered from the shadows and a wicked smile curled around sharp fangs.

Screaming, the girl closed her eyes as the dragon leapt forward with its mouth snapping open.

Feeling something stiff slip into her hands, the girl peered out to find tart lemons from the tree beside her window. Grasping the fruit she felt tears in her eyes as she reached further out the small balcony to climb into the winding branches. They moved as if alive, slithering and sliding across her feeble arms and choking the life out of her.

Gasping, Dany tore herself from their grip and fell into the sky. The thundering clouds wrapped around until their smoke was all she could see.

Then she was standing in a broken alley, her gaze fixed up at the crumpled Red Keep and the twisted chair that laid within. As she climbed the steps she realized they were not made of stone but rather bones, small ones, large ones, piled over each other until they reached the tattered gate.

_Why?_ The corpses asked, their empty faces turned to stare at her. Covering her ears the girl kept climbing, her eyes watering until she could barely see what was there.

Both feet reached the final platform and she realized the gate was not destroyed, but where there should be metal there were branches. They were thick and menacing, completely blocking the way inside, red leaves glistening.

And tart lemons dangled from within.

When she stretched her arm to grasp them again a vicious, sharp pain struck her chest and she turned to gaze into the saddened eyes of Jon Snow.

* * *

**Arya**

* * *

A girl awoke to the sound of bells ringing from the tower of Braavos and fishermen yelling to hoist their sails. She enjoyed the cry of the seagulls and the smell of salty shores. Yawning, Arya rose from her crude bed and stretched her seasoned limbs to shake off the tension. There was the excitement of possibilities, the anticipation of fresh faces and new journeys. This was a feeling she could never have in Winterfell - everything had always been the same there.

There was a shadow by the wall that she had already been aware of, but knowing the House of Black and White, it hadn't surprised her. "To whom should a girl address?"

A foot emerged, and then another, until Arya stared at the tall frame of Jaqen. "She addresses no one," he breathed, turning to face the sunny window. His gaze watched the incoming ships as they docked in a bustling port.

How long had he been there?

"A man questioned whether or not she would run away," he explained, as if hearing her thoughts. "She did not come this far to leave out of a window," Arya frowned, lifting her feet over the edge of the bed.

"A girl may not run, but she is not here to serve the Many Faced God. Why is she here?" Arya watched as his expression remained skillfully hidden under a mask. She couldn't help but admire the curve of his jaw and the streak of white in his hair. When Jaqen had changed masks his hair remained the same. Was this the only part of Jaqen that was truly his?

"A girl is not Arya Stark anymore. She has renounced her title, her inheritance, and came to Braavos. Is that not enough?"

"Her eyes are still someone. She lies."

"Is a man still someone? Is there nothing left underneath?"

Jaqen turned his head to look at her, past her, as if trying to see what wasn't presently there. "Ridding you of yourself is living without a soul. A man lives well inside a mask, a girl should do the same."

"What if I lose everything? What if there is nothing left to care about? What then?" Tears brimmed in Arya's eyes and she realized just how long she has struggled with finding a reason to continue. What was her purpose, if not for a list?

Jaqen gazed away, not knowing how to respond. They stayed in silence for a while, breathing, not offering release from the tension. Eventually Jaqen's mouth opened. "A girl will have to find herself again."

Then he swirled around and left through the open door.

Walking through the corridors, Arya watched silently as assassins would pass by in darkened cloaks with faces that weren't theirs. She wondered if they were allowed to show their true identity, or if being a part of the guild meant sacrificing even that. The followers that have been here for long might not even remember what they look like behind the mask.

"Admiring what you aren't capable of becoming?" a voice laughed from behind. Arya kept walking, knowing exactly who that voice belonged to. It was as if the waif had come back to haunt her in this stranger.

"And here you are, doing the same," Arya snipped. A hand clenched her arm and spun her around. Hazel eyes glared into hers. The woman was beautiful - she had rich, tan skin and long eyelashes that battered quite dramatically. This wasn't a mask. Arya knew she was truly looking at the woman's form.

"He only helps you because he pities you," she growled, tightening her grip. Arya narrowed her eyes. "Is that why you hate me?"

Twisting her arm around Arya pressed her lips against the woman's ear. "Does he know you love him?"

The snarl that rose from her beautiful mouth delighted Arya. This woman was used to unnerving others, but she didn't know how to handle receiving the same treatment.

"At least I haven't abandoned him in the way you have with your family. Where is that bastard brother of yours again? The Night's Watch? What a shame."

Arya took a step back and glared. "You know nothing of my family."

"I know a considerable amount. I know he killed that Dragon he loved so much."

"Shut it!' Arya spat, but this only encouraged the woman.

"Jon stabbed her for nothing, you know. His lover wasn't even mad. She was _poisoned_. Should I tell him? He wouldn't be able to live with the shame."

Words caught in the back of her throat and Arya stared in confusion. "I know what a killer looks like. She was a killer," she argued, feeling as if she had to defend his decision. "The Dragon Queen murdered thousands of innocents!"

The stranger inspected her fingernails, as if bored. "No, they were murdered from a drop of Basilisk blood in her cup. A cup I gave her," Asha replied, her mouth curving into an eerie smile. _What_? Breathless, Arya said nothing. She didn't know what to believe. Her training in the House of Black and White taught her what that poison did. Basilisk Blood drove anyone insane with anger, killing any too close to the victim. What did that mean?

A response brewed in Arya's mouth but a sudden voice stopped her. "Why would no one quarrel? Our differences are meaningless," the kindly man interrupted, stepping between the two.

The stranger hissed, but Arya took the distraction as an opportunity to walk away. She wouldn't give that woman the satisfaction of believing her lies. Thinking of the Dragon Queen, she remembered how it felt to see those dragons flying about Winterfell during the battle against the undead.

Then the images of screaming children in King's Landing solidified in her mind.

No, that woman had lied. It wasn't possible.

Preparing for Qarth was a good distraction. Returning to the hall of faces, Arya dragged her pack of masks that she had taken to Winterfell and placed them where they belonged. Then she chose at random her replacements. As soon as she could the girl slipped out of the hall and returned to her room, shivering at the pool of memories entering her mind.

Everything was ready. The sun was starting to tuck under the horizon when Arya shifted her pack on and walked out the door. Jaqen was waiting there, his darkened attire meant for traveling discreetly.

"A man kept his word," she breathed, and he nodded. Arya walked past him and towards the entrance. She tried to ignore the feel of his eyes on her. "Will his friend come too?"

"If she chooses." Then it was true. They were acquainted. Sighing, Arya thought of that bitter woman by their side.

They both stepped out into the fading daylight, peering at the dusty waters tinged in crimson. An omen?

"There is a carriage waiting for us by the stables outside the city," Jaqen explained as they walked together. Of course Jaqen had secured their way to Qarth.

The weight of Needle comforted her as they entered the outskirts of the city. Each stone wall seemed to grow as the night descended on Braavos, making her feel infinitely small. There was a strange feeling that crawled over her spine and Arya looked back as if someone was watching. An empty street greeted her.

Jaqen glanced at her questioningly and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. "It is nothing," she breathed, watching as the sun melted away. Then a crow sounded from above and she looked up, watching a raven dancing in circles. Bran?

Stragglers walked past them in a hurry. A door slammed shut from nearby, and then another. Arya shivered. She realized how cold it actually was. "Stay close," Jaqen warned, recognizing the tension in the air. Just as she was unsheathing Needle a step surfaced from behind them. They both turned and watched as a woman stood very still in a place that had been empty moments before.

"Asha," Jaqen growled, taking his hand off his sword. Arya kept her fingers gripping her blade securely and noted the stranger's name.

"We are partners, are we not? Why would you slither away, unannounced?"

"A man hides nothing. We leave for Qarth. You are welcome to join."

"I will not go with _her_," Asha spat, hatred clear in her eyes. "You wear your feelings so proudly. Do you not serve the Many Faced God?"

"Feelings? Then you know?" Arya asked, looking into his face. Jaqen raised an eyebrow.

"Quiet!" Asha barked. The fear in her voice was apparent. Arya turned back to Asha and grinned. "She loves you."

There was no response in Jaqen's expression. He already knew. "You were warned. A man has no heart," he breathed, a hint of pity in his words. The air was so cold it was starting to sting.

Asha flinched. It was clear she did not know the extent of Jaqen's indifference. They watched as her sadness grew into a much uglier emotion. With hands clenched in shaking fists Asha opened her mouth to respond.

A scream erupted in the night, and then a chorus of screeches followed. Bewildered Arya glanced around but couldn't find a cause for the noise. It was then she noticed the stars fading one by one until the sky was covered in thundering clouds.

Then it began to snow.

Arya's pupils grew wide and she yanked Needle out, pressing her back to Jaqen. "The dead!" she screamed, but before he could react a corpse jumped from the shadows and attacked them. Without thought Asha ran to join the pair and they worked together to destroy the creature. More frantic screaming littered the air and peasants began to pool into the alleys in panicked crowds. There were unholy noises rising from behind them.

"Run!" Arya yelled, yanking them with her through an open doorway. There was crying and shouting, cursing and struggling breaths. Arya couldn't hear them. The cold made it hard for her to travel quickly and she paid attention to nothing else. Stumbling up the stairs Arya glanced back at mangled bodies growing dangerously close to her companions. They pushed themselves through the balcony and managed to slide the bar shut, locking the door from outside.

Desperate screeches erupted from behind the wood and violent banging shook the platform. Looking out into the city Arya took in the winter storms descending upon the living from the sea. Uncontrolled fires were spreading in all directions and gave her enough light to realize where the undead had come from.

On the shores of Braavos in the direction of Westeros rested ships of rotting wood and tattered sails. There were hundreds if not thousands of them! Where had they come from? It was her own hand that plunged the dragonglass dagger into the Night King! They had lost so many of their people to end the Others, and here they were, appearing as if from thin air.

"We need to jump," Jaqen said and climbed onto the railing. He pulled both Asha and Arya up before hoisting himself onto the abutting roof. Once they were all above Jaqen pointed at the platform across the alley and jumped without hesitation.

He landed gracefully on the other side and beckoned them over before darting into the nearest window.

Asha launched herself across the alley and stumbled as she landed. Peering over the edge, Arya realized the spacing might be too large for her small frame. The sound of the door below bursting open made her ignore her doubts and Arya readied herself to jump. Taking large leaps, she thrust herself to the other side, her heart dropping when she didn't make it.

One of her hands managed to grab ahold of the edge and she gasped when her front hit the stone wall. It took all of her strength not to let go. Danging, she looked up into the darkened eyes of Asha.

"What is a wolf compared to a Dragon?" she grinned, before slamming her foot on Arya's hand. The girl gasped and fell to the crowded alley below.

* * *

**Mentionable Notes:**

Cliffhangers! Cliffhangers everywhere!

That's the point. Don't worry - my next chapter won't have any more open endings. I just thought to get a theme going this time around.

Also I have a ton of composers I listen to for inspiration to write this story (besides a heavy dependence on Ramin Djawadi, of course!).

I kept **The Final Chapter** by **Olafur Arnalds** on repeat when writing Arya's part, and **Josella** by **Keaton Henson** for Dany's dream as well as just an overall Dany theme of mine. Enjoy :)


End file.
